


as yet untitled ongoing exr rock star au

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rock Star AU, Sexy Times, avant garde hotels, groupie enjolras, rock star grantaire, works in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-08 12:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13458045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: For the twentieth time in twenty minutes, Enjolras asks himself what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> posting this here so as not to spam my [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) dashboard. i may post more of this story, but as yet it's unfinished and likely to remain that way at current. as always, your eyeballs are appreciated.

For the twentieth time in twenty minutes, Enjolras asks himself what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. That’s an average of once per minute, fast speeding up to match his heart rate.

He follows the security guard through the maze of backstage pathways, stepping over coiled cords and stumbling over half-unstuck electrical tape that clings to his boots. Sometimes it’s so dark he can pretend he doesn’t know where he’s going and then they round a corner and the fluorescent lights are too bright, and he sees the dazed faces of the people who troop beside him. 

Two other young men, two young women -- all of them attractive, overly done up, sharing out astonished looks whenever their eyes meet. They blink in silent code: _Are we really here? Is this happening?_ They don’t speak, as though afraid to acknowledge their destination. The etiquette is mysterious in the backstage warren, and words spoken aloud might break the spell. 

The guard draws up at last beside a door. “Phones off,” he says sternly, checks all their screens to make sure. “I get told you’re out, you’re out. No arguments. Trust me, I’ll win.” The breadth of his forearm, which bulges larger than Enjolras’ thigh, suggests he does not exaggerate. 

En masse, they nod nervously. That’s when the guard cracks a smile, if smiles can be mostly flat. “Have fun,” he says, and pushes open the door. 

A cloud of smoke -- mixed weed, cigarettes, and sickly sweet vapor, flavored after vanilla -- hits them first. Then raucous noise does, the sound of triumphant voices overlapping, crashing in cacophony. A tinny speaker is turned up past eleven and is piping in the act currently on stage.

Enjolras has forgotten that the concert is a triple bill. He came only to see Grantaire -- spent nearly half a month’s paycheck on a VIP ticket he tried not to regret the moment he paid for it -- and after the set, raced from the floor to the meet-and-greet area where VIPs were promised selfies and autographs for the monstrous price of admission. 

The bolder fans lingered long after they were asked to leave, hopeful, hoping against hope. Enjolras surprised himself by being bold, sticking close to the door the band was bound to exit through, allowing himself one last close-up. 

The selfie with Grantaire was a blur, literal and figurative, the picture nothing to post to Instagram. His hands shook too badly when Grantaire draped a casual arm around his shoulders. Grantaire offered to let him take another, but Enjolras hadn’t found his voice fast enough to speak, and the publicist was already herding Grantaire down the eager line. 

So Enjolras stared, standing exactly as he had when Grantaire touched him, and maybe that’s why he remained lurking with the more professional groupies. He wasn’t used to being starstruck, had never been moved to weak-kneed speechlessness by the mere presence of another person. Then again, other people didn’t mean what Grantaire -- what Grantaire’s music -- meant to him. 

To meet the avatar of the songs that got him through his most trying days in the flesh wasn’t something he was prepared for.

It didn’t help that Grantaire was as gorgeous as his best-shot album covers and magazine spreads suggested. Moody, broody, artfully greasy hair, the circles under his eyes far more pronounced in person, sure -- but still the object of Enjolras’ fantasies since Combeferre had tossed his first album into Enjolras’ lap senior year of college and said, _I think you’ll like this. This guy, he doesn’t lie. He’s genuine. He tells it like it is and he doesn’t spare the system or anyone in it._

And Grantaire became the soundtrack to his life.

That’s how Enjolras ended up here, poised before the greenroom, buffeted by pungent smoke. Grantaire, his singular fanboy indulgence, even now, even with the space of years after college and law school and all the supposed wisdom a dutiful job and responsible adult living brought. 

Grantaire, the only thing that made him irrational. That made him spend more money on a night than he’s spent in six months of nights.

That’s why Enjolras remained in the press when the band turned to leave the meet-and-greet, and Grantaire’s eyes swept over them, and Grantaire and the rest nodded discreetly at a lucky few before disappearing. Had it really been for him, the nod? Had Grantaire nodded at him?

When the guard offered Enjolras a backstage pass and then propped the door fifteen minutes later Enjolras was still too astonished to fully register what he was committing to. Then he found it didn’t really matter. He had to go or he would never forgive himself for what might have been. What might be.

Here he is. With the others close on his heels they go through the smoke and into the noise. The overhead lights are dimmed and Grantaire’s band is ranged on couches that have seen better days. Sidetables are crammed with bottles and ashtrays. The detritus of touring spills out from the corners, open suitcases and unslung instruments, a minefield of equipment to navigate. 

Grantaire himself is laughing uproariously from the middle couch, with a body draped across his lap, and Enjolras’ beating heart sinks -- until he sees that it’s Jehan, the longtime bass player, and he’s not sitting so much as clamoring atop Grantaire to grab a lit joint from Grantaire’s outstretched hand. Grantaire lets him snatch it at last, and Jehan slides free, and all of them turn as one to examine their visitors. 

The others seem to be old hands at this. They advance without invitation or hesitation, smiling past any hint of nerves, tossing their hair, batting eyelashes. They wedge themselves into seats on the couches, or perch atop thousand-dollar amps, or go to pour drinks from an unmanned but well-stocked bar. 

Enjolras’ throat is dry but he doesn’t know what to do. He stands casting glances at Grantaire and away from Grantaire until Grantaire’s gaze finally alights on him. 

“Come for a better selfie, Kennedy?” Grantaire tilts his head. Checks Enjolras out. His expression is mostly amused, more than a little bleary-eyed. 

Enjolras flushes under the scrutiny, the reference to the too-preppy work casual clothes he didn’t have time to change out of before rushing to the concert -- and because Grantaire remembered how much his hands were shaking, the mess he made of their expensive picture. Enjolras swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper. 

“Behave, you.” Jehan swats at Grantaire’s shoulder, then scoots aside to make a sliver of space for Enjolras. 

Grantaire appears a touch chagrined, gives Enjolras a more thorough once-over. “Grab me a beer and we’ll take all the pictures you like,” he says. His voice is, impossibly, both husky with singing and smoke and still smooth as cream that Enjolras can practically taste on his tongue.

Tongue-tied, Enjolras nods. He would pull down the moon if Grantaire asked it of him, would give it a shot at least, and the force of his reaction leaves him reeling. He heads for the overstocked bar, where one of his compatriots from the VIP crowd -- a fiercely pretty girl with a buzzcut and a pierced lip -- has taken it upon herself to mix drinks.

“What’ll it be?” She winks at him, and Enjolras focuses on the artful swoop of her eyeliner to regain some focus and the ability to speak.

“Two beers,” Enjolras says, trying not to panic that he hadn’t asked what kind Grantaire preferred. Grantaire has a sponsorship deal with Six Point, sure, but does that mean he really likes their beer? That’s what she’s sliding toward him, in two tall silver cans; there’s a cooler packed full of Six Points, but what if Grantaire hates it by now? What if this is some kind of test, and Enjolras is already failing?

“Listen,” says the girl, leaning conspiratorially across the bar, so that Enjolras ducks in to hear her. “You seem sweet. I like the All-American apple pie look. This your first rodeo?” She doesn’t wait for Enjolras to answer or react, just nods as though he has confirmed it. “I’m here for Marius, and this is _definitely_ not my first go round, so I’m going to give you some advice. I wouldn’t get my hopes up about the man of the evening. Word is, Grantaire hasn’t taken a groupie -- to heart -- in ages. Many before you have tried, and many will try again.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras says tightly, reddens, but then he bites down when her eyebrows go up. Not what? Not a groupie? Her cat’s eyes dare him to denigrate her status. Not hoping for what she’s trying to gird him against? He can’t deny that either. He takes a small sip of beer. Nods. He should be grateful for the warning, even if he feels his stomach plunge with disappointment. What the fuck is wrong with him? Did he really expect something to happen? “Thank you,” he says instead. “I’ll keep that in mind. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry, friend,” she says, smiling now. “We’ll still have fun. That’s a promise. You’re gonna think about this night for the rest of your life.” She toasts his can with her whiskey and slips from behind the bar to join the loveseat where Marius -- Grantaire’s drummer after Bossuet left to pursue a solo career -- is sitting with one arm around a stunning blond woman. Both Marius and the blond welcome her back with open-mouthed kisses, and Enjolras blinks at them, slightly open-mouthed himself.

He squares his shoulders and marches back to Grantaire’s couch. Jehan has scooted farther over, is now quite flush against one of the young men who came in with Enjolras, so there’s more room. Even so, when Enjolras sits beside Grantaire, they touch at the knee and shoulder through sheer necessity of space. 

Grantaire turns his head. Seems a bit surprised to see him, as though he’s forgotten about Enjolras and the request for beer in the two minutes it took. Grantaire’s blue eyes are overlaid with a hazy red from weed, but his hand is steady enough as he accepts the can and tosses back a hearty swallow. His throat is a long poignant column. Even his Adam’s apple is finely formed. 

Enjolras looks down, tries to find some imperfection to ground himself. Stares at Grantaire’s hands, which are calloused by guitar strings. His fingers are shapely and graceful but his nails are bitten to the quick, his cuticles raw. It should be off-putting, this found flaw, but instead Enjolras feels a surge of tenderness to be close enough to spot the human traits behind the rock god. He looks away, at the lip of his beer can, when Grantaire lazily clinks their cans together. 

“So what’s your story, Supreme Court?” asks Grantaire.

Enjolras startles as the address lands close to home. His cheeks must be permanently pink at this point. “Um,” he says, then sips to clear his throat. “Not quite. Legal assistant, though. Public defender’s office.” He thinks about how boring that sounds next to someone whose last three albums have debuted at number one worldwide. 

But Grantaire’s small smile grows as though he has Enjolras figured out already. “Overworked and underpaid,” he says knowingly. “Fighting the man, man. No wonder you seem so stressed out. Well, take a load off.” He starts to offer Enjolras the joint that Jehan passes over, then reconsiders with a smirk. “Suppose you can’t partake. You won’t report us, will you?”

To his own astonishment Enjolras responds with an impassioned flood of words about the dire, corrupt state of the drug war, the callous cruelty of mandatory sentencing, the racism and classism of the overburdened criminal justice system. It’s out of his mouth before he can remember who he’s addressing, an instinct and a subject too near and dear. He closes his mouth before the speech gets entirely away from him when he realizes half of the room has fallen silent and is listening. 

“A lawyer!” This from Joly, lead guitar player, who is sat on the floor nearby. “This has to be a greenroom first. Dude, can I have your card? Could come in handy. I’m always afraid I’ll be arrested one day and have no one to call at 3 a.m.”

Enjolras doesn’t know how to tell him that there’s no chance anyone as famous as they are will ever be locked up, even if they destroy hotel rooms or are found with a tour bus full of hard drugs. But he’s feeling embarrassed enough already, overexposed. 

To deflect the attention, he focuses on fishing free a business card from his wallet. He passes it over to Joly. By the time the exchange is made the chatter has resumed, and the dark-haired woman, Eponine -- he learns her name after hearing the blond woman moan it -- is coaxing Marius into dancing on a table.

After that, the night grows increasingly raucous. Alcohol flows in a steady stream from the bar, back and forth, back and forth. An assortment of drugs are passed around and consumed with alacrity. The concert on the stage beyond ends and someone puts on new music. There is wild dancing and group singing and indecent embraces, and through it all Enjolras sits beside Grantaire on the couch, touching at the knee and shoulder. 

Sometimes they speak at length. Grantaire is given to bursts of sharp clarity, when the feeling moves him -- he’ll debate Enjolras, engage on an impressive variety of topics, fight with him about some issue of the day until they arrive on common ground after an exhaustive bout. His intelligence and worldly-wise awareness, once ignited, is considerable, enticing, thrilling Enjolras to the bone. 

Enjolras never imagined this, despite the depth of thought Grantaire gave his lyrics. It’s something else entirely to take a theme Grantaire has sung about to the next level and pick it apart between them. 

But then five minutes later Grantaire will be staring broodingly into a distance only he can see, or he will turn and accept a line of coke or a bottle that is passed him, and drop the thread of their discussion. Every time he seems to notice Enjolras again, surprise is writ across his features.

Enjolras, for his part, is well and truly fucked. If he was attracted before to the unattainable ideal, to the vaunted showman who poured heartache and rage against the machine of the world into his music, Grantaire in person, a feeling, deep-thinking human with curling black hair that looks soft up close, is a thousand times more appealing. He can forgive Grantaire the trespasses of too many substances and all-too-apparent exhaustion. Enjolras is a guest here, barely that; how can he weigh the demands of a life so impossibly far from his own? 

It’s only when he feels a weary ache in his bones that he realizes it must be the middle of the night, or later than that. The room has no windows, and with his phone off he can’t track the passage of time. It’s only when Enjolras glances away from Grantaire to set down the empty can of what must be his fifth beer that he realizes the couches around them are vacant. The rest have gone.

Through his buzzing head he rewinds and pulls up memories of friendly mentions of after-parties, nightclubs, the tour bus, a hotel suite. He and Grantaire alone have stayed, and now they are alone.

“Oh,” says Enjolras, because Grantaire isn’t reacting to their newfound state. How long have they sat like this? “I guess I should probably--”

“Why are you here, Law Review?” Grantaire leans back into the couch’s embrace, his eyes on Enjolras. Did Enjolras tell him about editing the Review or is it another wry guess that’s too on the money? He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. His brain is skipping forwards and backwards in time. 

Grantaire says, “Why are you really here?”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, what’s expected or desired, so he tells the truth. “I wanted to meet you.”

“Well.” Grantaire still won’t look away. “Are you satisfied?”

The question seems to hang in the air for a long time. Finally Enjolras licks his lips. It’s his most nervous gesture, but he realizes belatedly how it must come across. “No.”

He doesn’t imagine it: there’s a flare of heat and interest behind the blue of Grantaire’s gaze, quickly suppressed. Grantaire shakes his head. “Listen, I’m not who you think I am. I’m not what you came here for.”

It’s the most surreal conversation Enjolras has ever experienced, but his pulse is thudding hard now, and the muggy, alcohol-induced excitement in his head urges him to speak where otherwise he might be silent. 

“You’re exactly what I came here for,” Enjolras hears himself say. He thinks he sounds convincing. He’s convinced.

Grantaire pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He closes his eyes briefly. Opens them. “Christ,” he mutters. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Enjolras.” Enjolras bites his lip, watches the heat surge again. Grantaire’s eyes like blue flame. He makes a decision, and then he moves deliberately, swings one leg over Grantaire and settles into his lap. Faces him. His heart is beating fit to burst at his own audacity, but he’s too far gone -- past sobriety, past propriety, focused only on the mind-bending present. “It’s Enjolras. You asked me a few hours ago. Said it sounded like a cough suppressant.”

Grantaire’s body beneath his shakes with sudden laughter. His hands stay bunched in the fabric of the couch. But he doesn’t push Enjolras away. Doesn’t pull him in. Looks, doesn’t touch. It’s more disconcerting than if he had grabbed and pawed, or shoved him loose. “Okay, Ricola. You’re killing me here.”

“Tell me what the problem is,” Enjolras suggests, his hands meeting at the base of Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire’s hair spills over his fingers, wondrously soft, not greasy at all to the touch. Soft as he guessed. He could bury his hands in that hair and not let go. 

“Too many to name,” says Grantaire. “You know, I have to be on a plane to Stockholm in four hours.” 

“I know,” says Enjolras. “I bought the tour shirt tonight.”

“You bought--” That seems to have been the wrong thing to say, because Grantaire’s mouth tightens, and he appears newly resolved where resolve had been chipping away. “I swore I wasn’t going to do this anymore.” 

“Do what?” Now Enjolras’ expression is stubborn, too. “Say it.”

Grantaire blows out a breath. “Fuck groupies.” He closes his eyes again, keeps them shut. “Jesus. I’m sorry. You need to go. I don’t have any filter left.” 

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras tells him. “I’m not known for my filter, either. I appreciate honesty.” He doesn’t go, though. He doesn’t move. Hardly dares to breathe. “Why the groupie vow of chastity?” 

Even though something in him rebels at the classification, he doesn’t refute it, either, just as he couldn’t with Eponine. 

_Groupie, n.: a person who regularly follows a music group or other celebrity in the hope of meeting or getting to know them. Groupie, derogatory: an enthusiastic or uncritical follower._

He may have never pursued anything like this before, but too much of the definition holds true. For Grantaire, Grantaire only, Enjolras is an enthusiastic follower. This may be his singular indulgence in a rigid, upright life. In Grantaire’s lap he feels pliable, like anything could happen and that would be all right. He barely knows himself here. The feeling of escape is fantastic. 

Grantaire’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying to decide whether to answer or not. Then he shrugs and says, “Because of the unbalanced power dynamic. It got old fast, and then it never seemed fair.” 

Enjolras wants to kiss his pert red lips for saying so. God, how he wants to kiss him. They’re so close together. Even this should be enough, Grantaire’s face inches away, Enjolras’ legs bracketing his body, Enjolras’ fingers skimming under his hair at the nape of his neck.

Grantaire seems to be thinking aloud now: “It’s hard not to respond to hero-worship at first, you know? They make like you’re doing them a favor. Why shouldn’t I spread the love? But in the light of day, people are people are people. They have regrets.” Grantaire isn’t looking at him anymore -- he’s staring at a point over Enjolras’ shoulder. “I do. Who am I, to take what I want, when it’s being offered for the wrong reasons?”

Straddling Grantaire, Enjolras isn’t prepared for philosophical discourse. Even so, even tipsy, he can find the will to argue back. “Who are you to say what’s right or wrong for someone else? Isn’t that assuming as unequal of a dynamic -- deciding that since you’re the one with power, your instinct is unerringly the correct one?” He tips his head sideways. “Deciding that you’re the one with the power in the first place? Maybe this is empowering for me in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”

Grantaire considers him. His eyes are glinting. “Are you -- are you trying to reason me into sex?” A slow smile turns the sides of his mouth. “This is a first. What’s your damage, Atticus Finch? I’m fascinated. You have a boyfriend?”

Enjolras can barely hear him over the sound of his heart, which seems to think he’s running a marathon, it’s going so fast. “No.”

“Girlfriend? Gender nonconforming partner?”

“No.”

“Virgin?”

“No.”

“Then what are you trying to get away from?” How is it that Grantaire can see through him so clearly? Is Enjolras that transparent? “You’re smart and hot -- can’t say that isn’t my favorite combination to have in my lap. But you wouldn’t be here without a reason. I need to know what that is.”

“I--” Enjolras’ brain kicks into overdrive, thinking about it. He decides to tell the truth. “I’ve never done anything like this. This is entirely unlike me. This is so utterly not me that no one I know would believe me if I tried to tell them. Even if I drew a diagram from memory.” Jesus, now he sounds even more lame than _legal assistant at the Public Defender’s office._

“Ah,” from Grantaire, and he nods, like he gets it now. “Repressed to the teeth.” But he’s slowly unbending, relaxing, his body becoming more accommodating under Enjolras’ weight. Then he lifts a hand and runs his thumb across Enjolras’ lips, experimental, as though to test the sharp edges of Enjolras’ repression underneath. 

Enjolras locks his gaze on Grantaire’s. Opens his mouth and takes Grantaire’s thumb inside. His tongue flicks against the pad of Grantaire’s finger, feels the grooves where guitar strings have cut deep.

The tip of a thumb and he’s more turned on and ready than he’s ever been. Yes, this is _unlike_ him. And it isn’t just because of who Grantaire is or what his art has meant to Enjolras’ existence. There’s something about the man himself -- his unexpected forbearance, his biting intellect and observations, his mile-long stare -- that appeals to Enjolras more than fame and fortune ever could. 

Grantaire watches him. After a moment that seems to last a year, he pushes his thumb further. Then he withdraws and repeats the motion. Then he moves his hand free, and he -- “So I guess we’re doing this. God, we’re doing this. But tell me that you understand --”

Enjolras waits, his breath caught. 

‘’--that this is a one-time deal. I’m touring for the rest of the century, seems like. My time isn’t my own. My life isn’t. We do this, I get on a plane, you go back to fixing the criminal justice system. Do you understand, Enjolras?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, to all of it. A shiver starts at the top of his spine and slides down to his toes. It's the first time Grantaire has said his proper name, and he wishes he could play it on a loop, over and over.

“Well,” says Grantaire, and he smiles for what must be the first genuine time, since it reaches all the way up to his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees again. Now that he’s getting what he wanted -- what he wants -- a thousand cautionary voices wake up and start screaming in his head. This is crazy. This is dangerous. This is wrong. 

But all of them ring falsely shrill, and instead he hears Courfeyrac wheedling him to go out on a no-strings date through same app or another, or to bring someone home from the bar, for once, just try it, dude, seriously, you need to relax. How is this any more out there than those scenarios? 

It’s exactly like a hookup with a willing stranger and exactly unlike it; he knows everything there is to publically know about Grantaire, and more besides; they’ve talked for hours. Listen to Courfeyrac, Enjolras thinks. Courfeyrac would already be naked by now.

So Enjolras goes first. He leans back in Grantaire’s lap, and undoes the buttons on his ridiculous collared work shirt that he’d ironed in the morning. He takes it off and throws it out of sight -- to show that he can be impulsive. 

Grantaire’s hands come up to support the lean. One spans the jut of Enjolras’ hipbone; the other spreads across his lower back. His hands are hot as brands. His hands are big, and strong; they’ve primarily been occupied in playing instruments for a decade. Enjolras has a wild thought, that if he makes a sound right then and Grantaire shifts his hold, Enjolras will change key accordingly. He’ll be played.

Grantaire’s hands move, range across Enjolras’ revealed skin with a slowness that seems to take them both by surprise. Grantaire traces across Enjolras’ stomach with two fingers like he’s mapping out the lines of his abs, like he’ll need to draw them one day from memory. Up, up, ever upward, the clever fingers find and tease one nipple, then the other, and Enjolras bites his lip hard enough to hurt, his body arching in response. He can feel Grantaire getting hard against his thigh now, and he rocks back and forth in a bid to increase friction. 

Enjolras reaches, gets the hem of Grantaire’s black t-shirt in his hands, tugs, and Grantaire lifts his arms to let it be yanked over his head. His shoulders are broad, the muscles of his biceps finely corded. His arms are almost entirely encased in tattoos -- pictures, patterns, words, Tarot cards, faces -- and at each shoulder, below the collarbone, twin birds diving in flight, their feathered bodies a riot of color.

Enjolras can’t help himself, can’t stop. He tilts in, gets his mouth on salt-sweet skin, tongues along the body of the left bird, whose downward trajectory would let it land on Grantaire’s heart. He can feel Grantaire’s breath hitch in his chest. He lifts his head and looks at Grantaire’s face, uses his thumb to complete the exploration of the bird. “What are they?”

“Swallows,” says Grantaire, his focus on Enjolras’ mouth. “Old maritime tradition. One swallow meant five thousand nautical miles traveled. It marked an experienced sailor. That much distance was hard to earn.” His eyes meet Enjolras’ eyes. “I have a lot of miles on me.”

“They’re beautiful,” says Enjolras. Pictures enough have been snapped of Grantaire without his shirt on -- he’s taken it off at shows and festivals where heat or the energy of the set demanded it -- but Enjolras never noticed the birds before. Maybe they are recent additions. Grantaire hasn’t dropped his eyes, and the intensity of their shared gaze is more arousing than anything intangible has any right to be. 

Enjolras -- _swallows_. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Very much yes.” Grantaire starts to work Enjolras’ belt free. “Now that we’ve established that our power dynamic is egalitarian, I feel perfectly comfortable letting you know that I’ve wanted to fuck you since that disastrous selfie. You should’ve seen your face. The disappointment. It was cute.” Belt unbelted, snaps unsnapped, zipper unzipped, Grantaire puts his hand up and palms Enjolras’ cheek. “You have no idea what you look like, do you.” It’s not pitched like a question. “The lack of vanity’s refreshing. That’s pretty rare for me these days -- to see anything new under the sun.”

“How do I look?” Enjolras asks it before he can remind himself they’re not in some romantic scene -- those words, the confession from Grantaire, Grantaire’s obvious appreciation and attraction, should be enough. 

The air feels too heavy around them now. To ask was a mistake, and Grantaire drops his hand. His features, which had begun to soften at the edges, draw firm; he raises one dark eyebrow to a sarcastic height.

“Like you should’ve been riding my dick five minutes ago,” Grantaire says. “C’mon.” He rolls his hips, the length of hardness beneath jeans prominent and promising. 

Enjolras nods, no longer trusting himself to speak. He concentrates on swinging his leg free, peeling himself off Grantaire. Then he manages, “Do you have--”

Grantaire points towards the nearest corner. “Joly’s bag. He’s always prepared. He won’t mind. Hell, he’d be thrilled to facilitate safety first.” 

Enjolras paces over to the indicated suitcase. His heart feels lodged in his throat. It’s rude and invasive to rifle through someone else’s stuff, but he’s too deep into this to let that stop him now. He unzips the bag and is relieved to find it neatly packed and organized. In the cosmetics case there are condoms and foil packets of lube amongst the toiletries. He watches his unsteady hands to steady them as he collects supplies. 

On the couch, Grantaire is kicking free of boots and then his jeans and boxer-briefs -- black, all black, soon in a pile at his feet. His cock is long and thick, proud from its base of dark hair. He’s bigger than anything Enjolras has seen outside of porn, impossibly, achingly big. God, how Enjolras will ache. 

His knees feel weak as he walks back. He wants to go to his knees. Get his mouth around Grantaire’s cock and see how much he can take. Have Grantaire pull his hair and push him further when Enjolras thinks he’s reached his limit. Wants to gag and choke and beg for more.

He pauses at the parted apex of Grantaire’s thighs, considers putting the plan into action. But Grantaire had said _Like you should’ve been riding my dick five minutes ago._ So instead he slips out of his pants, attempts to make the motion smooth. He doesn’t give a show, but he tries not to betray his nerves, his excitement. 

Excitement is evident enough from his own hard cock -- maybe not made for primetime porn, but he’s never gotten any complaints -- and Grantaire’s approving eyes on him widen just a little, and beneath his eyes he’s smiling now. A smoldering sort of smile, as though he’s tasted something forbidden. He reaches out; his fingers circle Enjolras’ wrist, and he hauls him back across his lap.

They haven’t kissed. Grantaire hasn’t kissed him, nor seemed inclined to be kissed, but it doesn’t matter. Grantaire’s hands are all over him, without any semblance of restraint now, and he wraps Enjolras’ cock in a closed fist and starts to jerk him off like it’s an imperative, like this is the main event. 

The callouses on Grantaire’s hand feel wonderfully rough and electrically new and for a moment Enjolras lets himself look down through his eyelashes at the sight of Grantaire like every one of his college fantasies made real. He had a poster of Grantaire tacked up to the dorm room ceiling, and sometimes, at night, he’d stare and let himself pretend --

Real. This is real, and it’s happening, and Enjolras is gasping, thrusting into Grantaire’s grip, set aflame but wasting time in burning. He puts his handful of supplies on the back of the couch, then tears into one of the foil packets with his teeth. Slicks up his own fingers, makes them as wet as he can. 

Then Enjolras curves the other hand over Grantaire’s shoulder for balance -- just above the swallow tattoo -- and looks at Grantaire looking as he starts to open himself up. He works one finger in before he’s forced to pause, practically panting, fighting the conflicting emotional and physical reactions that surge: how badly he _wants_ , how _ready_ he felt starting hours ago, a slow boil now volcanic with the force of his desire -- all contrasted with his unyielding, out-of-practice body. 

When had he last let someone fuck him? He can’t remember, can’t see their face at all with Grantaire so near.

Two fingers. Enjolras bites his lip until he tastes blood. Grantaire is still stroking his cock, so that Enjolras’ lower body is buffeted by their joint movement; and it already feels so good just like this that it’s taking all of his considerable willpower not to scream.

“Goddamn,” says Grantaire. There’s a rawness to his voice that changes its tone. No affectation, no performance, no persona layers it. Is this what he really sounds like? “ _God._ You look--” 

But once more he won’t finish the thought, and instead releases Enjolras’ cock -- Enjolras groans -- to open a packet himself. Grantaire’s finger, tapered and longer than Enjolras’, is almost delicate in its approach as it slides into him, adding the stretch that Enjolras needs. They prepare him together, quickly in sync, in-out-in, and it’s the singular hottest and most devastatingly intimate act that Enjolras has experienced. 

When Grantaire starts to ease him toward a fourth, Enjolras opens his mouth and thinks this time he’ll scream and there’s nothing to prevent it; but Grantaire murmurs something about security outside the door and gives him the fingers of his other hand instead. Enjolras sucks them greedily, without any sense of shame. His brain is alive and lit up with sensation and there’s no space for anything else. _No space_ inside him but Grantaire keeps making more. He takes the fourth.

If Enjolras were capable of clear thought he might think about how much care and time Grantaire is giving him, when he wouldn’t have objected to brusque handling and impatient advances -- expected that; almost anticipated callous indifference. Instead it’s clear that Grantaire has pride in his work and an interest in mutual satisfaction. 

Instead it’s something else, drawn-out and thorough, curious, exploratory, exquisite. Grantaire mindful to expertly crook his fingers so that Enjolras moves against him and is ready to come just from this. Ready, ready, ready. 

He mouths this at last, to the hollow of Grantaire’s throat: “Ready,” and “Please,” and then he strings it together. “I’m ready, Grantaire, please.” 

Hs voice is half a sob, unrecognizable, and he keeps his head down, pressed to Grantaire’s neck, so that Grantaire won’t have to see how undone he is. God, he promised a musical legend fun sexytimes and here he is trying not to shake apart, a needy, wanton _mess_ that must have always existed just below the surface of his skin --

“Shh, shh,” from Grantaire -- not a silencing sound, but a soothing one, and the loss of his fingers is stark and shocking except they’re soon settling on Enjolras’ hips, sweeping over his shoulderblades, gliding along the joints of his spine. “You’re good, you’re so good. Will you help me out?” And he tips his head to indicate the condom on the couch cushion nearby. 

Enjolras only just manages not to make an all-out grab for it. As he unrolls the condom down Grantaire’s cock he realizes it’s the first time he’s dared to touch him like this, and that if he’s ready so is Grantaire and Grantaire has been _waiting_ and patient. Grantaire is rock-hard, which means everything they did to make Enjolras prepared turned him on, too, which means that Enjolras does, which means -- 

“Hey, Chief Justice, I can hear you overthinking,” Grantaire says, “none of that,” and he lines up his cock and lifts his hips, and then he’s inside Enjolras.

Enjolras opens his mouth but no sound is forthcoming. He opens himself instead: Grantaire comes into him, slow and sure. The first few inches seem monumental, an event. Enjolras shuts his eyes. 

Grantaire moves carefully, rocks his lower body with calculated momentum. Then he pauses, holds still, lets Enjolras adjust. Grantaire is halfway in and even that feels like more than Enjolras can handle, and Enjolras is holding his breath so that his treacherous, panicky brain doesn’t betray him.

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire, and Christ, his name on Grantaire’s lips, his name said in Grantaire’s voice, will never not be the most erotic experience Enjolras can imagine. Grantaire touches the back of Enjolras’ neck. “Stay with me. I don’t want to be something to endure.”

“No,” says Enjolras, opens his eyes fast. “No, you’re--” But he doesn’t know what to say: you feel too good and you’re too much and I don’t have the words for what you are; you’re what I’ve wanted beyond reason for as long as I can remember and I can’t breathe now that you’re happening to me; if I let you all the way in I won’t know how to be without this anymore. So instead he says, “Just let me--” and he gathers up his tattered pride and fortitude and regains a measure of self-control. 

He thinks about how, in this position, the balance of power is truly equitable: Grantaire could have bent him over the side of the couch, or had him on his hands and knees on the floor, or climbed over him and parted his thighs and driven deep without pause; and all of those positions are moments that Enjolras wants, too. But Grantaire pictured them like this, envisioned Enjolras above him, sinking down. Like this, with Grantaire keeping still, it’s Enjolras’ choice to set their pace, it’s Enjolras who directs their progress. 

“Just let me--” Enjolras says, a statement without a conclusion that can be vocalized. Grantaire does, Grantaire _lets_ , Grantaire watches with questioning eyes, and that decides Enjolras. Enjolras goes up onto his knees, then goes down, down, down. His thighs are shaking, and sweat trickles along the path of his spine, but he repeats the motion again, and again, takes more of Grantaire each time. 

It feels like forever until he’s seated, and also, in the end, it’s mere seconds, as every rise and fall feels better, and when he holds all of Grantaire inside him at last he’s so full-up he doesn’t know what to do. There’s no room for logic or process anymore, and all his past sexual references don’t align with this. It hurts like the best thing that’s ever happened to him and isn’t his to keep.

He stays like that for a long time, full-up, astride Grantaire, unmoving, until the lack of motion becomes unbearable. Grantaire’s lips are parted and he’s breathing fast now, brow furrowed in concentration, and it occurs to Enjolras that it’s a remarkable test of endurance for Grantaire to remain steady. To have Enjolras work Grantaire’s cock into him without so much as an impatient thrust. 

Only a shivering tension across Grantaire’s skin, and the way his teeth flash out once across his lower lip, betray the effort it costs to stay calm. 

Enjolras tries to reward Grantaire’s restraint and his own accomplishment, draws Grantaire almost entirely out and then takes him back inside with a quick snap of his hips. It feels so good that he bends his back to anchor Grantaire’s cock within him, then repeats the movement to chase the electrifying sensation that lights up all his nerve-endings at once. 

Enjolras’ reward is a low groan from Grantaire, a sound new and raw, unlike anything he’s heard before. He’s listened to Grantaire’s songs for years, heard him laugh in radio interviews, watched him wax poetic in the documentary about the making of the last record, seen him alive with energy live on stage. 

But in all of that abundance of noise there was nothing like this, pure responsive feeling that sounds torn unbidden from his throat, that appears to surprise Grantaire as much as it excites Enjolras. 

After that it’s Enjolras’ mission to hear it again, and he’s never felt so inspired or determined to reach a goal. He starts to set up a rhythm, up and down, down and up, bringing them together without waiting to register each stroke, so that their speed is punishing but is teasing, too, presents the sharp edge of satisfaction without going over it. 

“Fuck,” says Grantaire, fervent. His hands curl around and under Enjolras’ hips, helping the rise and fall, lifting and tugging him back into place. His fingers dig in for purchase. “Okay, you’re no virgin. I believe you. But God, fuck, so _tight_ \--” and he lets free a torrent of praising invective so filthily descriptive that Enjolras laughs, shakes with laughter. He’s beside himself with pleasure both bodily and born of the discovery that Grantaire can maintain a stream of consciousness, even when Enjolras commits to ride him to within an inch of their lives.

They go on and on and on. It’s strange not to kiss at all during sex but somehow it’s even more exceptional with their eyes locked instead of their mouths, every action registered, every shift in breath and bitten lip recorded. Sweat wets Enjolras’ hair and there’s a line of it down Grantaire’s throat from their exertion. He ducks his head and tastes: his tongue flickers at the curve of Grantaire’s neck, licks salt-slick skin. 

Grantaire groans again beneath him, and he rolls his hips with unleashed urgency. Enjolras holds still then and lets Grantaire take over their motion, revels in the sudden, desperate drive of his cock. Grantaire’s fingernails carve into his skin, his fingers are gripping close enough now to bruise, and Enjolras hears himself saying, “Yes, _yes_ ,” because Grantaire has found the perfect angle to fuck into him and because Enjolras wants the bruises, wants blue-red-purple marks to be there tomorrow when Grantaire isn’t there anymore but some proofs will remain.

“Is this what you wanted,” says Grantaire, thrusting deep, deep, deep, splitting Enjolras in half, separating Enjolras from everything he’s known about himself before. He doesn’t say it like a question, and Enjolras just keeps saying: _Yes. Yes._

So Grantaire doesn’t stop, fucks him faster, harder, their rhythm starting to unravel as the end of the movement approaches. He gets one hand around Enjolras’ cock, which is straining between them, and Enjolras cries out. At the last second Enjolras remembers about the security beyond the greenroom door, and he bites into Grantaire’s shoulder to smother the sound. 

All it takes it three strokes from Grantaire’s hand and inside him and he’s coming, coming completely apart. Surely Grantaire can see how it takes him like an earthquake, shatters all the foundations he thought he had, breaks down his barriers and reduces internal walls to rubble. 

It’s a release so well-wrought and wrung from him that afterward Enjolras is in total collapse, boneless against Grantaire’s chest, open-mouthed and trying to remember how to breathe so that he can survive the aftershock of Grantaire arching up into him and following. 

Grantaire isn’t silent in orgasm, he isn’t quiet ever, Enjolras knows now, and the noise he makes is better than all of his albums combined. Surprised satisfaction at how hard he comes is evident in his expression, in how long he holds himself in Enjolras, in how deep his fingernails bite. 

The bruises will last for days, Enjolras thinks. They’ll still be there when Grantaire’s in Sweden, in Croatia, in Germany. They’ll be there long after Grantaire’s forgotten about this.

The thought shouldn’t hurt so much -- shouldn’t ache, like the ache left behind when Grantaire starts to slide free at last. Enjolras thought he knew what he was getting into, had signed up for it, had, for God’s sake, _reasoned_ Grantaire into doing this in the first place. 

Even so, it hurts. Enjolras hurts. He clings to the pain as a reminder, as another proof. When the ache is gone he’ll be entirely himself again, rigid and predictable, not the kind of person to straddle a rock star. 

So he stays like that, above Grantaire, until Grantaire says, “You okay, John Grisham?” and Enjolras grins despite himself and the unforgiving maelstrom of his thoughts. He moves slowly to sit beside Grantaire. Starts to grope around for his clothes.

“I’m good,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t say _I don’t know what I am anymore, because I want what I can’t have, and I’ve had what I shouldn’t have tried to want._ “You?”

“Yeah, wow,” says Grantaire, which isn’t an answer, so much as a general acknowledgment of their success, and is generous of him. Maybe Enjolras’ face looks as poleaxed as he feels, because Grantaire treads delicately, seems almost protective. “I mean, thanks, man. Guess I needed that more than I knew.”

Turns out that after you’ve been fucked by the person you’ve lusted after for years and it was fantastic enough to liquefy your brain it’s difficult to keep up your side of the conversation. Enjolras nods, like it’s all cool, man.

Enjolras doesn’t feel ashamed -- not that; he’d do it again in a second, if Grantaire gave the slightest sign -- but he’s suddenly, intensely uncertain, all the bold adrenaline and alcohol that had spurred him on burned off. Shy beside Grantaire, who’d been inside him a minute before, he pulls on his jeans and shirt with furtive modesty. Isn’t it a groupie’s role, now, to slink graciously away? His hands are busy with his shirt buttons. “Well. I’ll--”

“Feel free to sleep it off here,” says Grantaire breezily. He hooks his boxers between his toes and drags them on, but doesn’t look overly concerned about the rest of his clothes. The black cloth makes his skin golden in contrast. “Flight’s in a couple hours. I gotta pack up or Jehan’ll be back and yelling soon.” 

Grantaire pushes a hand through his disheveled hair, and that’s when Enjolras reads how his lines have changed: the tension is gone from Grantaire’s shoulders, the spiky sarcasm from his tone. He looks better now than ever, softer, amiable, a young man instead of an idol. He tilts his head when Enjolras can’t stop staring at him. “Don’t believe me that Jehan can yell when we’re running late? Just stick around and see.”

“I,” says Enjolras. Stops. Doesn’t know how to start. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest. If it’s disconcerting not to know how to act after fucking your favorite celebrity, it’s unmooring to be around him as a real person, with a real job, even if that position is one beyond most people’s wildest dreams. Grantaire, the rock star with whom he’s just had the best sex of his life, is now a human being who has to pack and be on a plane for his next gig, with the sun already rising somewhere beyond their windowless room. “You’re not going to sleep?”

“Nah. Used to it. I’ll crash on the plane.” Grantaire shrugs. The circles under his eyes make more sense. “Like I said, though, feel free.” He gets up, heads for a suitcase in the far corner whose contents have exploded in every direction, leans over to start making order from the chaos there. 

Enjolras feels dismissed and yet, in the same instant, bizarrely trusted. Every logical bone in his body, all of them, are screaming at him to salvage some kind of dignity and leave. Go now. Nothing more will come of this. Yet he can’t make himself move. His body is heavy and his eyelids are heavier, and it’s so much easier to lie down, his head pillowed on his arm. So much more appealing to let this ride out to the very end, not to sacrifice any time spent here. 

In a few more hours it will be like this never happened. He’ll stay, but not fall asleep; he’ll stay and listen to the sounds of Grantaire active around him. He’ll lie where he’d lowered himself, inch by inch, to hold Grantaire inside him; he’ll hold onto this a few moments more.

“Here,” he hears, and then Grantaire is beside the couch, draping something warm across him. It’s a leather jacket, heavy and solid and soft in a beaten-in way. It smells of smoke and Grantaire, and it weighs on Enjolras like a mountain. He couldn’t move then, he thinks, if he tried. 

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, perhaps a touch too earnestly, too all-encompassing. But Grantaire is already moving away, and Enjolras, despite his resolution and determination to do nothing of the kind, falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Speak,” says Courfeyrac, his eyes lit up. “My God, man, I can barely contain my anticipation. I feel like a spy. I’m positive Combeferre will show up at any moment even though I chose his least-favorite restaurant and told him I had to meet a new client. Shit, I was too transparent. Now he’ll definitely know where we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all are the sweetest and my absolute favorites. since you asked for more, here's more. i guess this would be the "enjolras and his lieutenants" chapter.
> 
> come find me on the [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) if you're just joining us.

Enjolras wakes up disoriented, with a firm hand shaking his shoulder. He blinks for a long time. His eyes are dry and take a while to open, feel full of sand. The beginnings of a hangover are creeping insidious tendrils through his head. 

When he remembers where he is it seems impossible that the memories are correct. He sits up too quickly. The leather jacket is still on him and slithers to the floor.

Otherwise the room is bare of any signs of the band. Of Grantaire there is nothing save the jacket, and the bruises on his thighs that Enjolras can feel when he shifts on the unforgiving cushions. The ache deep inside him. He flushes bright red.

The hand belongs to an older man in a janitor’s uniform. His other hand grips a mop and bucket. His face is lined and set, but his gaze beneath silvered hair is kind, almost pitying, which doesn’t help. “Son,” he says, gently. The embroidered nametag on his jumpsuit reads VALJEAN. “It’s time to go.”

“Of course,” says Enjolras, gathering up his tattered pride, and the jacket. “I’m sorry for being in your way.”

“No trouble at all.” Valjean sloshes the mop into the bucket and starts making slow, practiced circles on the floor. Enjolras wonders how many people he’s woken up in this very room, in various states of disorder. “It’s six in the morning, if you’re wondering.”

“Thanks.” At least Enjolras is fully dressed. Small favors to clutch at the in the overwhelming haze of his disorientation. The band’s plane was meant to leave at six. Which meant they’d all come and gone hours ago and left him sleeping through it. Somehow he slept through everything. His embarrassment is palpable, warring with disappointment and growing disbelief at what he’d done the night before. “I’m afraid I don’t know the way out. If you could--”

“Not my job,” says Valjean mildly. “Javert will show you.” He tilts his head, and Enjolras looks over to the open door, where the concrete-faced security guard who’d guided them backstage is standing with his massive arms crossed. He scowls at Enjolras, but at the sound of his name from Valjean he softens like a stone worn down by water, and nods as though against his will.

“Come on, then,” says Javert.

Enjolras gets to his feet. He has a bad crook in his neck. His bag is tucked under a table, where he left it what seems like years ago. He slings it over his shoulder, straightens his helplessly wrinkled shirt, and looks at the jacket. 

It’s Grantaire’s, he knows it is; Grantaire has worn it in countless photoshoots and even on a B-side album cover years ago. Enjolras should leave it here, he knows, have the venue send it along to its rightful owner, as it was surely left by accident in the band’s departing haste. But it’s too precious of an object to entrust to strangers, even to Valjean’s trustworthy face. Before they can question him about it he puts it on.

The leather is dark and butter-soft and smells like sweat and also sweet, like Grantaire’s skin had tasted under his tongue. It’s too big, but he turns up the sleeves and squares his shoulders, and he pretends not to see Javert’s raised eyebrow. 

Javert has a penetrating, take-no-prisoners way of staring, and it’s evident that he’s already divined that Enjolras is not the leather jacket type. But at another glance from Valjean, he holds his tongue. Bites it. 

He shows Enjolras the way out of the eerily empty backstage warren in total silence, then shoves open a door through which daylight floods in. Enjolras steps through, eager to escape Javert’s presence, and it slams shut behind him. 

When he looks back the door doesn’t have an outside handle, like a portal in a fairy tale or a nightmare. There’s no way back in, there’s no way back into that impossible evening. Enjolras turns away into the street.

Six in the morning. He has to be at work in a couple hours, a terrible miscalculation of time. What was he thinking? The sex -- Jesus Christ God, the sex -- notwithstanding, he’s unwashed, hungover, and must look like he slept for all of two hours on a couch in a greenroom after a concert. He reeks of smoke and sex (God, the sex) and beer, and he’s standing downtown in Grantaire’s too-large leather jacket trying to stave off fast-curdling panic. He fumbles out his phone and turns it on.

While the phone is loading up Enjolras stares at it. Calling Combeferre would calm him down: Combeferre would tell him with utmost practicality what to do and how to feel. But he’s not quite ready to talk to Combeferre about what happened yet. Combeferre is his best friend, but Combeferre is also utterly resourceful, and will be confused by his state at first, the choices he made. 

Also, Combeferre is the one who discovered Grantaire, all those years ago, Combeferre loves the band’s music almost as much as Enjolras. He’ll be incredulous, have too many questions.

Enjolras calls Courfeyrac. This comes with some attendant problems of logistics, however.

“Hullo?” Courfeyrac sounds fuzzy; he’s never met a morning that he likes and is the sort to set a minimum of seven alarms and snooze them in sequence. 

“Say it’s your aunt and get out of bed,” Enjolras snaps, and the desperation he feels must translate into sound, because he hears Courfeyrac, abruptly awake, exclaim, “Auntie! What a surprise!” and give a soft, “Shh, babe, it’s fine,” to Combeferre’s sleepy query beside him. 

Nothing energizes Courfeyrac so quickly as the promise of inclusion in a scheme, and soon enough Enjolras can hear the sound of doors opening and closing through his friends’ apartment as Courfeyrac leaves the bedroom.

“What the fuck,” says Courferyrac, nearly cheerful now. “Are you in jail? You have to be in jail. Am I your one call? What’re you in for? It has to be really bad, or you’d have called Combeferre. Not that I’m not flattered to be chosen--”

“I need your help,” Enjolras says. The reassuring, teasing tone of Courfeyrac’s voice soothes and grounds him somewhat. Already he’s starting to feel ridiculous for panicking, for not being able to figure this out himself. 

If he blurts it all at once it will sound preposterous: _I need your help because I fucked the rock star of my dreams and it was mind-blowing and then he left while I was sleeping and now I’m standing on the sidewalk in his leather jacket and I feel like I’m blurring at the edges --_

“I, uh, had a weird night,” Enjolras manages. “I wasn’t prepared for it, and now I’m pretty far from home and I look like shit and I’m not sure what to do.”

“ _Profoundly_ flattered to be considered the Jedi master of shitstorm adventures,” says Courfeyrac drily, but he does sound pleased. “Okay, I’m going to help you in my gracious fashion, but as payment you have to tell me everything. Stop looking so indignant. It's adorable when you get all puffed up like a little attack dog. I can wait until lunchtime for the details. Now--” 

Courfeyrac tells Enjolras to go to his exclusive gym in midtown, where he’ll call ahead to get him entry, and to shower there, and the combination to his locker where there’s extra work-appropriate clothes. “And for god’s sake, drink some coffee and eat something. You’ll need your strength for all the talking we’re going to do.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. The solution really is helpful. He thanks Courfeyrac. “Please -- please don’t tell Combeferre. Not yet.”

“I tell Combeferre everything. So do you.”

“I know. Courfeyrac, please. Just -- keep this between us, just for a while.” 

Courfeyrac tsks, but it’s an intrigued sort of tsk. “You know the less I tell Combeferre, the more he’ll know something’s up. He has that power. He’s dazzling.”

“I know.” Enjolras bites his lip. “I’ll tell him too, after I see you. It’s not. It’s not _bad_. I promise. But I think I need your advice first.”

“Well, when you put it like that--”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says again, meaning it, and he hangs up the phone. 

* * *

Everything goes smoothly enough at the gym. He really is lucky to have a friend like Courfeyrac -- he’s always known it, since the moment they were paired together as roommates in college. Trust doesn’t come easily to Enjolras, but Courfeyrac was too big-hearted and likable not to be liked immediately. 

And when, sophomore year, Enjolras had the pleasure of introducing his closest college friend to his visiting oldest friend from childhood, and they’d hit it off at once, Enjolras had been relieved and proud to be the agent of their meeting. 

When Combeferre transferred in junior year, when he and Courfeyrac announced they were officially dating, no one had been happier than Enjolras. When they stayed together, and moved with him to the city after school, he couldn’t imagine life without their warm friendship and loving partnership. 

When Combeferre proposed the night their marrying was deemed legal in the eyes of the state, a night when they’d all danced in the streets, it was Enjolras who took shaky, emotional pictures of Courfeyrac’s exuberant response. When they married at City Hall he stood as first witness for them both. 

In his mind they’re an inseparable unit, the backbone of his own strength. But despite their innate togetherness they are also very different people. Courfeyrac had rescued him without too much interrogation when he couldn’t begin to explain his night to Combeferre. Not just yet. Combeferre would’ve had the whole story out of him in an instant, and that wasn’t what Enjolras needed when he stood shivering on the corner in the shadow of the venue. People have an array of friends for a reason.

And so: the gym. It’s the kind of place frequented by models and stockbrokers and marketing consultants like Courfeyrac, with a hefty monthly fee. The morning rush has started, but most are still on the machines, and no one gives him a second glance as he cuts through the main floor. In the locker room he finds large showers of enclosed glass, and breathes a sigh of relief. This is exactly what he needs.

He tracks down Courfeyrac’s locker, spins the dial, and feels grateful all over again for the pile of neatly folded clothes within. Courfeyrac’s vanity has allowed for several outfits, and they look like they’ll fit well enough. Enjolras grabs the first shirt and slacks his hand encounters, helps himself to the bag of toiletries, and chooses the shower in the furthest corner. 

In its cubicle he slips out of Grantaire’s jacket, zips it, and folds it neatly. The smell of the leather is pungent. He fights the ridiculous desire to press his nose into the collar and inhale. Instead he shoves the jacket into his bag and covers it up with his clothes, which are fast removed.

He turns the water to extra-hot but pauses before he steps into the stream. One more step and the scent of Grantaire on his skin will be washed away. He looks down when he remembers that there’s more lingering evidence. Already the marks on his hips and thighs have bloomed with mottled colors. The water can’t change that. Only time will. He gets in.

Half an hour under the steady stream, with the luxury of Courfeyrac’s fancy hair stuff and body scrub, and Enjolras starts to feel like himself again. 

His borders are becoming redefined, the blurred feeling is fading. He gets out, dries himself with a fluffy towel, dresses in Courfeyrac’s clothes, which fit just fine and are nicer than anything he owns. The imprint of Grantaire’s fingers disappears beneath cloth. His jacket is buried in Enjolras’ bag.

Enjolras gets a coffee and an egg and cheese sandwich from the bodega on the corner, and then he goes to work.

* * *

Enjolras knows after the gym’s facilities that he looks perfectly normal -- in fact, he looks good: his hair is gleaming from the fancy shampoo and his more fashion-minded co-workers compliment his outfit. 

But by lunchtime two of them have asked him if he’s feeling all right. He, who is usually the height of preparedness, is late to an important meeting; he knocks over a stack of case folders, distracted; the phone is ringing and ringing and he forgets that he’s the one who’s supposed to pick it up. 

Bahorel, a tall, blustery associate in the office known for his sharp opinions, saunters over to Enjolras’ desk. They’re on friendly terms, and around Enjolras he doesn’t pull any punches. “You look like you’re about to blow chunks at any minute. If you don’t mind my saying so, and I hope you don’t because I’m gonna say it anyway, go the fuck home.”

“I’m -- fine,” says Enjolras, tight-lipped. His bag is under his desk and there’s a leather jacket in there burning a hole through his world, but other than that, he’s just peachy. 

“Well, we tried to be reasonable,” says Bahorel, planting big hands on Enjolras’ desk. “Look, I’m not suggesting, I’m telling. Fantine’s orders. She saw you swoon into those files, and she’s afraid of your plague spreading. You know we can’t afford to have people get sick around here.”

Enjolras blinks. The public defender was usually too busy to notice any of their office’s mundane details -- but if Fantine had really seen him and made the call, he can hardly argue with the boss. How could he take up her precious time in trying to explain that he was acting like a zombie but not actually ill? 

Besides, he’s been here for more than two years and never taken a sick day. Never even taken a vacation day. Maybe, Enjolras thinks, maybe one personal day won't undo him.

_What’s your damage, Atticus Finch? I’m fascinated._

He stands up too quickly, tips over his chair, startles Bahorel. “Yeah, okay,” Enjolras says. “Please tell Fantine I’m sorry and I’ll see her bright and early for the meeting on Monday.” 

“Get some rest,” says Bahorel, his usual joviality contained with effort. Any other day and he’d be ribbing Enjolras mercilessly for acting like a space cadet. “You’re pretty pale. You should get that checked out.” 

“I think you’re right. See you later, Bahorel.” Enjolras shoulders his bag again, resisting the urge to leave it under the desk to distance himself from its contents, and exits to the concerned waves of his coworkers. He lasted roughly three hours. 

Out on the street he calls Courfeyrac. “I got sent home. I’m taking a personal day.”

“Holy shit,” says Courfeyrac, then there’s a long pause. “Sorry, I went to the window to see if the sky was falling.”

“Ha ha ha,” says Enjolras, without mirth. “I guess I should go home.”

“No way, Jose,” says Courfeyrac. “We have a lunch date, and I already made a reservation and cleared my schedule. There’s no way in hell you’re not meeting me after I lied to my one true love, the light of my life, my lawfully wedded spouse, and told Combeferre that my senile Auntie called from France this morning because she forgot the time difference. He’s already onto us, of course.” 

Courfeyrac names the restaurant and the time and and hangs up before Enjolras can answer.

* * *

By the time he gets to the restaurant -- a well-appointed affair with redwood paneling and elegant booths -- Courfeyrac is already seated and has ordered them Manhattans, coffee, and orange juice. 

Courfeyrac is halfway through his cocktail, and he toasts Enjolras as he sits down. Normally Enjolras would never drink during a workday, but today is not normal, and he accepts the drink. Hair of the dog that bit you, everyone always says. He takes a sip and feels some of his headache start to recede. He has another sip.

“Speak,” says Courfeyrac, his eyes lit up. “My God, man, I can barely contain my anticipation. I feel like a spy. I’m positive Combeferre will show up at any moment even though I chose his least-favorite restaurant and told him I had to meet a new client. Shit, I was too transparent. Now he’ll definitely know where we are.”

Haltingly, with several pauses to reduce his glass to nothing but ice, Enjolras sketches out the events that followed the concert. Courfeyrac listens intently. Halfway through he gestures the waiter to get them a refill.

“Fuck me,” Courfeyrac says when Enjolras manages to relay as much as he’s capable of putting into words. “I fully expected that I was summoned here to help you, like, bury the body of some serial murderer who outwitted the criminal justice system but couldn’t escape your justice.”

His animated, handsome face is so serious that Enjolras is startled into a laugh. “You really think I’d do something like that?”

“One hundred percent,” says Courfeyrac. He waves a hand like that’s a given, then as easily dismissed. “Enjolras. Enjolras. Enjolras. You _look_ like death, not like someone who sounds as though he just had the best night of his goddamned life.”

“I don’t,” Enjolras starts, weakly. He doesn’t know what he’s protesting. He shuts his mouth.

“I mean,” Courfeyrac says, “to put it delicately: what the hell is the problem?”

Enjolras looks down, pretends to study the menu. The waiter takes that as a sign and comes over to take their orders, and that buys him a few moments of stalling. Then he drinks again.

Courfeyrac sighs. “I’m sorry if I’m not understanding. Let’s go over this again. You had sex with an actual rock star. Like, two-time Grammy award-winning, multi-platinum album-selling, certified, bonafide, headed to the Hall of Fame someday singer-songwriting guitar god. Not to mention, _your_ rock star, the guy you haven’t shut up about since you were nineteen. I don’t get why you’re not, like, gloating, even a little.” His eyes narrow. “Was he no good? Is that it? Is he a giant dick?”

A giant dick. Enjolras swallows half his refreshed Manhattan. Somehow he doesn’t choke. “No. He was...considerate.” _Stay with me. I don't want to be something to endure._ The leather jacket draped over him for warmth. _Here_. “It was good. Really good.”

Courfeyrac grins at him. “I think I understand why Combeferre wasn’t called first. Man, he’d want to know everything. He’s gonna lose his mind. Grantaire’s one of his free passes, you know. He’s totally allowed to have sex with him in the fantasy world that married couples make up to pass the time because no one ever _gets to fuck a real rock star in real life._ ” Now Courfeyrac is beaming, and he wipes away an imaginary tear. “Proud of you.”

“Don’t be. I’m--” Enjolras closes his eyes, keeps them closed when he forces himself to say: “I’ll never get to see him again.”

It fucking hurts, it hurts him to say it, and it shouldn’t hurt, he has no right to any kind of pain. He opens his eyes and Courfeyrac’s smile has faded.

“Oh,” says Courfeyrac, soft.

Once Enjolras has started talking about the hollow pit in his stomach he can’t stop and it all spills out like bile. “I’m the one who went after him. He tried to tell me it wasn’t a good idea. I pressed him. He said, finally, okay, but you have to understand, it’s a one-time deal. And I said I understood and I was fine with that and I was, then. But then, to be with him--”

Enjolras breaks off, grateful when the food arrives, and takes a while shoveling strips of salmon into his mouth. Courfeyrac watches with uncharacteristic silence, and doesn’t touch his B.L.T.

After a few minutes of quiet Enjolras takes the speech back up. “It wasn’t like anything I’ve felt before. And yes, I know how I sound, I know I sound like a fucking idiot, and I’m sorry. And I know how fucking stupid I am, I know how much it was because he’s who he is and I got worked up. I know, all right? I fucked someone I shouldn’t have and can’t have or ever even, like, call, and it meant more than it should have and he left while I was sleeping but he left his jacket and I, I sound like I’m losing my mind and I think I might be, I really think I’m--”

“Whoa,” says Courfeyrac, “that’s enough. First of all, don’t apologize. Christ, never apologize to me, it's weird and unsettling. Second, you have to take a breath and give yourself a break. I know this kind of thing is new to you, and I don’t deny that your specific situation would be new to most people. But you can’t hold yourself to your usual standard on this. You took a risk that was unusual, it paid off, but then it paid some unexpected dividends. To be perfectly clear: you’re not upset that you had sex with him. You’re upset that it wasn’t what you thought it would be?”

Enjolras exhales air he hadn’t realized he was holding in. “Yes.”

“Good, we’re getting somewhere. Now, you may be aware that I’m somewhat of an expert in this arena. How many people have I slept with?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” Enjolras touches the side of his mouth with his napkin. For the first time since he left the venue this morning he feels himself smile. “I don’t think I learned to count that high.” 

Courfeyrac kicks him under the table. Smiles back. “There he is, the Enjolras I adore. What a bastard.” He reaches for his sandwich at last, seeming relieved, and takes a hearty bite. Then he says, “Exactly so. I was blessed with many partners in college. Some of them were friends. Some were party hookups. Some were substance-fueled experiments. Others were people I had convinced myself I could be in love with. A few of them were in love with me.” He names the colorful parade that had marched through their shared common-room with pride. “And what did I learn, what did they teach me? It’s never, ever the same with anyone, and it’s almost always unexpected.” 

“I’ve slept with people before, you know,” Enjolras points out. “You’ve met most of them.”

“True,” says Courfeyrac. “True. But you were never particularly excited about any of them -- and in fact, the more that they were excited about you, the less you gave a damn.”

Enjolras doesn’t try to deny it, though the evaluation seems unfair -- more to his unwitting past hookups, sure, but harsh overall. He takes a long drink.

“Don’t sulk. I’m highlighting it because it’s crucial in this case. Sex doesn’t come with a manual. I mean, there’re lots of manuals based on what you’re into, but none that can cover exactly how you’re going to react or feel. Some of those people that I loved, there just wasn’t any spark, no matter how hard we tried. Some of those random one-night stands blew my mind -- our chemistry was incredible, life-changing. And so if I could guess, I think that’s what happened here. You had great chemistry, it felt like explosions, and it was intensified because this was also the one person in the world _whose poster used to hang over your bed_. And if that wasn’t enough, this is the one person in the world unlikely to annoy you thereafter, because he’s mad famous and currently embarking on a European tour. That’s a lot of charged emotions designed specifically to set you off.” Courfeyrac snaps his fingers. “Tell me if I’m wrong. I don’t think I am. But knock yourself out.”

Enjolras blinks through the diagnosis. It makes sense, and he’s not going to tell Courfeyrac that he’s wrong. Likely Courfeyrac is correct. The whole thing had felt so shattering to Enjolras for the reasons Courfeyrac named, and because he had relatively few experiences to compare it to. He realizes that he sounds petty, and young, and so his voice is low as he tries to shape his most nagging doubt into words: “What if that was it, though? What if I never feel anything like that again?”

Courfeyrac gives him a look that is too close to pitying before fast replacing it with his usual smile. “Try turning that thought around,” he suggests. “Some people go their whole lives without even one night of wild, consciousness-expanding sex, sad as it makes me to think about. Now that you’ve had it, you know it’s out there, a whole other world has opened up. I’m sure you’ll feel that way again. Maybe this is the push that finally gets you back on an app and dating again.”

The thought of having sex with anyone else when he can still _feel_ Grantaire makes Enjolras scowl. Courfeyrac takes the hint and doesn’t pursue the topic. Tucks into his food instead. They eat in silence for a while. 

Then Enjolras, his voice still small, says, “How did you know? With Combeferre. How?”

Courfeyrac’s expression turns dreamy. It’s uncanny and unfair, how even after all their years together, they still act as in love as they were in college, when everyone goes around thinking that they invented love. “Leaving aside his astonishing goodness, and his obvious hotness, which can’t be concealed no matter how many bad glasses and baggy sweaters he tries to hide behind: I think it was the balance. He balanced me. Remember how out-of-control I was, majoring in weed and minoring in beer pong? He never tried to stop me or change me, but he was so calm and even-keeled that when I was with him I felt that way, too, and I liked it. And in return, I think I helped him loosen up, learn how to have fun, how to talk to people. In a million different ways, we balance each other. We've kept on doing that. Balancing.” Courfeyrac pops a slice of pickle into his mouth. “Also, Combeferre is really, really, really good in bed.”

“Thank you, darling, but I know that Enjolras would have preferred to grow old without that knowledge,” says Combeferre, standing just beyond their table with his arms crossed.

Enjolras jumps about a foot. Courfeyrac squeaks -- an honest-to-God squeak -- then leaps to his feet to throw his arms around his husband. He looks guilty, peppers Combeferre’s cheek with kisses, then mock-glares at Enjolras. 

“I told you,” Courfeyrac says. “There’s no way to keep him from figuring these kinds of things out. He’s a genius. It’s like trying to tell Sherlock Holmes not to solve crimes, or Gandalf to lay off the magic.” To Combeferre he says, “Forgive me. Enjolras made me lie to you. He’s trying to convince me to leave you and run away with him, and I was just trying to let him down easy by informing him of your obviously far superior sexual prowess.”

Enjolras puts his head in his hands to keep himself from laughing. “It’s true, I’m afraid. All this time I’ve been in love with Courfeyrac, and I couldn’t stay silent any longer.”

“Both of you are the worst liars in the world,” says Combeferre, ushering Courfeyrac back into the booth and sliding in next to him. He gives Enjolras a curious once-over. “Since it’s nowhere near my birthday, I’m reasonably certain we’re all in good health, and you’re wearing my husband’s clothes, I’m going to hazard a guess: you had an unexpected one-night stand and Courfeyrac helped this morning.”

“An actual, verified genius,” coos Courfeyrac. 

“What I can’t understand,” says Combeferre, “is why it’s a secret. More specifically, a secret from me. I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other.”

Enjolras feels terrible. “No, no. I mean, I didn’t mean to--”

“Was it someone we know from back home? Someone who bullied me in middle school? That was my first guess.” Combeferre narrows his eyes. “An ex of mine? An ex of yours? Just because I never got on particularly well with Antoine doesn’t mean this kind of subterfuge is required--”

“It wasn’t--” Enjolras pushes a hand through his hair, fights the desire to pull on it in frustration. “Combeferre, I apologize. I didn’t want to lie or keep anything from you. I just--”

“I get it,” Combeferre says. He seems to relax at these assurances, and slides his arm around Courfeyrac, who cuddles close. “Courfeyrac asks fewer questions.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m a great question-asker--”

“I slept with Grantaire,” Enjolras says, says it flatly, because it’s never going to get easier for him to wrap his mind around the enormity of the concept. “After his concert. There was a whole gaggle of groupies that went backstage. I was one of them.”

Combeferre blinks at him. Courfeyrac says, “Wait a second, hold up. You didn’t tell me this started with some kind of groupie orgy, I’ll need to hear more--”

“ _Grantaire_?” It’s rare to catch Combeferre truly by surprise, but precious. His mouth makes a tiny ‘o’. 

“Yes.” Enjolras busies himself with taking a sip of his drink, finds it mostly ice again. Crunches down on a cube. 

“Grantaire.” Combeferre’s expression is a study in warring contrasts; it looks like he’d like to say many things at once and can’t decide on their precedence. At last he says, “Holy fucking shit, you son of a bitch.” It’s more curse words than Combeferre has used in the last few years combined, and Courfeyrac gives him an admiring glance. Enjolras doesn’t flinch because Combeferre’s eyes are sparkling now, the hurt of being left out banished now that he knows the reason.

“I tried to tell Enjolras that Grantaire was yours,” Courfeyrac says. “You totally chose him first in the ‘what celebrities would we theoretically, and for the rest of us we really mean theoretically, sleep with’ game.” He feeds Combeferre a french fry from his plate, which Combeferre eats; it’s a gesture of such casual intimacy that Enjolras has to look away from them. “Why the two of you are so hung up on that dude I’ll never know. He’s looked like he needs a shower, a shave, and a haircut for the last ten years but no one will let him bathe.”

“It’s his aesthetic. Or, really, the lack thereof,” Combeferre says at once, springing to Grantaire’s defense. Combeferre has been a fan even longer than Enjolras -- Combeferre’s the reason they’re here having this ridiculous conversation in the first place. “He doesn’t care about the celebrity-industrial complex, about money or fashion or anything. He’s genuine.”

“Sure,” says Courfeyrac, giving him another french fry. “Genuinely filthy, maybe.”

It’s like they’ve forgotten that he’s here. “He wasn’t filthy,” says Enjolras quietly.

Two pairs of rounded eyes on him. “Oh, _right,_ ” says Courfeyrac, with a grin that’s more than a touch wicked. “Why don’t we ask Enjolras, who has been _naked_ with the man.”

“Wow,” says Enjolras. “Why don’t you say that a little louder, I don’t think they heard you in the kitchen.”

“Let’s take a step back,” says Combeferre, so often their tempering influence, now looking like he needs to restrain himself. There are a thousand questions in his eyes, but what he asks is, “Are you okay? Why aren’t you at work?”

“I overdid it last night,” Enjolras admits. “I took the day off.”

“Everything up is down, we’re in bizarro land,” says Courfeyrac. “Enjolras now sleeps with rock stars and skips out on the office. Soon he’s going to grow an ironic hipster beard and be too cool to hang out with us.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and gives Courfeyrac the finger. Courfeyrac blows him a kiss. 

Combeferre presses his lips together, the lines around his eyes forming his worried face. “This isn’t like you.”

“That’s exactly why I did it,” Enjolras admits. _Repressed to the teeth_ , Grantaire had said, a moment before Enjolras sucked on his finger. He wants to crawl under the table and away from his friends’ well-intentioned concern. “I just -- I think I needed to do something unexpected for once. But I got it out of my system, I’m fine, and it’s never going to happen again, so you don’t need to worry about me.”

It’s going to take a longer, more expansive conversation to convince Combeferre of that, and several days and space from this to convince himself. But Combeferre nods at last, and Courfeyrac is checking the menu to decide on a dessert, and they make it through the rest of the meal without incident. 

When Courfeyrac gets up to go to the bathroom, Combeferre’s sharp, brilliant gaze refocuses on Enjolras’ face. No one in the world knows him better, and Combeferre’s tone doesn’t broker argument. “You’re not okay, though.”

“Maybe not today,” Enjolras hedges, not bothering to deny his not-okayness. “But I will be tomorrow. And if I’m not, I’ll tell you first. I promise.”

It’s enough for Combeferre. It’s enough for now. Courfeyrac comes back, announces that he took care of the bill, and lets Enjolras leave the tip after an argument about it. 

They exit the restaurant in step, the three of them as it’s been for so long, only Combeferre and Courfeyrac are holding hands, and for the first time, Enjolras notices that his hands are empty.

* * *

His apartment also feels empty. He’s always liked living alone, but when he gets home he finds himself wishing that he had a roommate. Maybe a cat. Something to come home to so that the silence doesn’t feel so thick. 

Usually Enjolras' method of not dealing with things that should be dealt with is to keep busy: he’ll plunge himself into work or in volunteering for a cause or organizing for or against a local politician, but his head still hurts too much to allow for anything productive. He turns on the TV so that there’s noise in the background. Then he carries his bag into the bedroom and stares at it for a while. Then he takes out Grantaire’s jacket.

One indulgent inhale is what he allows himself. Leather and smoke and the scent from Grantaire’s skin. Strong hands closed around his thighs, calloused fingertips. Blue eyes watching him with wry curiosity and then with real heat. Dark hair falling past the nape of a long neck. Two birds diving in flight.

Enjolras puts the jacket on a high shelf in the back of the closet. He closes the door decisively, gets into bed still wearing Courfeyrac’s clothes, and tries to will the present into becoming the past.

***

Life goes back to normal. He works. He goes to the movies with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, goes to bars with them, goes to protests. He works some more. He volunteers his weekends away and most evenings. 

A month after the concert, Bahorel asks him if he’s seeing anyone. Says his girlfriend has a friend he thinks Enjolras would like. To prove that life is normal Enjolras agrees to the double date. 

It’s fine. It goes fine. The guy is good-looking, intelligent, perfectly nice. Charming, even. They all go out to dinner and share two bottles of wine. Bahorel’s girlfriend is bright and bubbly, with an infectious laugh, constantly laughing. She and Bahorel keep the conversation on its toes all night, stepping in again and again when Enjolras seems at a loss for words. 

Because it’s not fine. He feels miserable, feels worse for being the world’s worst date. Afterward the guy says he’ll call but he never does. Enjolras doesn’t blame him. Feels relieved. 

He works longer hours. He asks co-workers if he can help with their caseloads. One day he shares the elevator with Fantine and she knows his name. 

It takes a couple of weeks but he starts listening to Grantaire again. He loves the music too much to lose it to selfish pitiful wallowing. He’s long been a member of some of the fanpages for the band on social media, and after a while he lets himself look at the stream of pictures coming out of Europe. Grantaire looks good, looks so lit up on stage. Only when they catch him afterwards do the shadows under his eyes seem more pronounced.

Every time some pretty young thing posts a selfie with Grantaire’s arm slung around their shoulder Enjolras fights an irrational, sickening wave of jealousy. 

_I swore I wasn’t going to do this anymore. Fuck groupies._

But he’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d fucked Enjolras, and he hadn’t needed much convincing in the end. How many others has Grantaire fucked since?

Not that it’s any of Enjolras’ business. 

Not that it matters. At all. See if he cares.

He wakes up one morning two months later, gropes for his phone, starts to page through the news. At the top of the entertainment section is an unflattering picture of Grantaire -- he’s trying to turn his face from the camera, and looks angry and tired -- and a big, screaming headline in red.

SINGER HOSPITALIZED IN BUDAPEST FOR EXHAUSTION

Enjolras taps through with his heartbeat thudding past his ears. Everyone knows that “exhaustion” is the celebrity codeword for an overdose or a mental break. The article on a shitty gossip site is scant on details, but relays that the concerts in Budapest and Vienna have been canceled, the tour on pause until further notice. 

There’s an apologetic statement from the band’s manager, with the assurance that Grantaire is fine and will be back on his feet in no time. That’s when Enjolras starts breathing again. 

Two weeks later the band is in Portugal. The tabloid interest is intense but by all accounts Grantaire puts on a show for the ages. The fanclubs stop worrying. The stream of pictures returns. It appears that he’s stopped doing meet-and-greets but no other concerts are canceled. 

Enjolras works. He sees his friends. He signs up for the local all-hours gym and starts going in the mornings. Sometimes he goes at night when he can’t sleep. Stays up running. 

The band is due to return to America with a two-night bill in New York. Enjolras gets up early, loads and looks at the Ticketmaster page. The shows sell out in thirty seconds. He doesn’t try to get a ticket, then spends the rest of the day feeling bad about it. What happened shouldn’t deprive him of the only diversion he’s ever given a fuck about.

He thinks about going anyway, seeing if he can score a ticket from a scalper. Combeferre and Courfeyrac scrupulously avoid the subject. That night he gets drunk at the bar and they take him home together, both of their arms around him to get him up the stairs. 

The day before the first concert, Enjolras is sitting at his desk, reading the same brief for the third time, when the office manager drops off his mail. On top of the pile is a plain manila envelope without markings. He blinks up at her, confused.

She shrugs. “Came for you by bike messenger.”

Inside the envelope is a two-day VIP pass. Nothing else. Enjolras stares at the plastic square and its hologram stickers for a long time. Then he shoves it in the top drawer of his desk, grabs his phone, locks himself in a phone room.

“Real fucking funny,” he snaps as soon as Courfeyrac answers. “You’re hilarious.”

“I am, true, but I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate,” says Courfeyrac, unruffled. 

Biting off each word, Enjolras explains about the pass. “If it wasn’t you, it was Combeferre, and you can tell him where to shove it.” 

“Dude, calm thyself,” Courfeyrac says. “It wasn’t Combeferre. A, he’d have told me if he came up with such an ingenious plan to piss you off, and B, we share a credit card and I’d have noticed that massive chunk of change. Also, C, there’s no way we could’ve gotten one. The best tickets sold out before they were even on sale, let alone some schmancy pass.”

Enjolras feels the blood draining from his face. He sits down. “But--”

“I think there’s only one logical explanation for the source,” Courfeyrac says, and for once, he treads carefully. “Granted, he might have sent a note or something, but it’s kind of a sweet gesture.”

“You’re insane.” Enjolras closes his eyes. “You really think?”

“Who else?”

He swallows hard. His stomach is churning. “What does it mean?”

“Speaking as a full-blooded person who likes to fuck other full-blooded people, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that he had a good time that one time and he wants to fuck you again. That’s what I would do, if I was a rock star who didn’t know your proper address. I mean, I would’ve sent a note. But that’s splitting hairs.”

“I have to go,” Enjolras manages. 

“All right, well. Tell Combeferre I love him.”

“I hate you,” says Enjolras. He hangs up and calls Combeferre.

Combeferre listens without interruption. Then he says, “I can confirm that it wasn’t us, although Courfeyrac’s going to be mad that he didn’t think of it. I think he’s right.”

“You think this is _sweet_?”

“You’ve told me half a dozen times that you’re sure Grantaire never thought about you again,” says Combeferre with too much calm and too good of a memory, damn him. Enjolras hadn’t realized how much he’d returned to the topic in the intervening months. “Here’s evidence to the contrary. It’s an invitation. Now you get to decide if you want to accept it.”

“What if he doesn’t actually want to see me? What if it’s just, like, a friendly gesture?”

“Then it’s a friendly gesture from your favorite musical artist giving you exclusive access to the hottest ticket of the year,” reasons Combeferre. “If you decide not to go, remember that I’m your best friend. Since second grade.” 

“You’re no help at all.”

“Second grade,” says Combeferre.

“I told Courfeyrac I hated him, but now that’s transferring over to you. Both of you are the worst. I’m so glad you’re married because you deserve each other.”

“Enjolras.”

“The _worst_.”

“Sleep on it,” says Combeferre. “Decide tomorrow. Or skip the first show and decide on Friday. You know what? Send me in your place tomorrow. I’ll scout it out and report back.”

“Selfless to the end,” says Enjolras. “I’m hanging up.”

“Think about it--”

He hangs up and stays in the booth, thinking, until someone with an actual work call to make taps on the door. He goes back to his desk and by the time he sits down, their group chat has exploded.

Courfeyrac: for the love of god, e, let him go. i’m never going to hear the end of this. apparently i failed as a husband by failing to get tickets of our own

Combeferre: I didn’t say “failure.” I said I was disappointed.

Courfeyrac: i’m a disappointment as a husband. please save me

Combeferre: Whatever Enjolras decides to do, we support it.

Courfeyrac: that’s combeferre code for “if you love me at all you’ll let me go.” i’m starting to really hate this guy, you guys

Combeferre: It’s unfortunate that your musical tastes don’t align with your excellent taste in everything else.

Courfeyrac: now he’s insulting me, do you see what i have to put up with?

The “someone is typing” bubble is active, so Enjolras jumps in before he can be blamed for further marital strife. 

Enjolras: ok, you go tomorrow, combeferre. i’ll drop the pass off at your office in the morning

Combeferre: BEST FRIENDS FOREVER :)

Courfeyrac: bless you. come over after work tomorrow and i’ll make you my famous pasta

Combeferre: Ordering from Seamless doesn't actually make you the chef.

Enjolras: i have to go back to work now ttyl

But he doesn’t go back to work, not really. And he doesn’t sleep much. And even though he spends a companionable evening the next night with Courfeyrac over heaps of spaghetti carbonara, his mind is with Combeferre at the concert. 

Courfeyrac actually takes his phone away for the length of dinner after he catches Enjolras checking Twitter for real time updates one too many times. 

Enjolras lets Courfeyrac refill his wineglass. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “If you were me, would you go?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t tease him. He seems to get that this is hard for Enjolras to handle. “It doesn’t matter what I would do, although I think we both know what I would do.” He tips his head sideways, studies Enjolras. “Do you want to see him again?”

“Sure,” says Enjolras, shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“Sorry, let me rephrase that. Do you want to have sex with him? Let’s not pretend that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re grownups now.”

Enjolras does not choke on his wine, like a grownup. “I liked it the first time, didn’t I?”

“It rocked your world, as I recall. Which is why you’re fucking terrified. Either that happens again and you’re all shook up, again, or it’s not so great and you’re disappointed because you’re gagging for it.” 

“Shut up.” Enjolras stares at him. “Shit.”

“Don’t look so surprised that I know how your mind works and how emotions work,” says Courfeyrac. “Give me a little credit. We used to live in a tiny room together. You snore when you have a cold and are a powderkeg of internal conflict.”

Enjolras is struck by an alien urge to hug him. “Okay,” he says.

“So I guess if I were you, I’d go. It’s obvious you want to, but you’re better at self-sacrifice and high-minded martyrdom than doing things for yourself. I’d go and I’d try to enjoy it, however fleeting. You may have fooled Combeferre with your stoic act, because he wants to believe you’re fine, but I’m better at feelings than either of you and it’s been pretty clear you never got over that first time.” Courfeyrac finishes off his wine with a flourish. Sets the glass down like punctuation on the end of a sentence. 

Enjolras opens his mouth -- to argue, or to agree, he’ll never know -- but just then the door swings open and Combeferre floats in. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a loose white t-shirt under his open coat, his hair parted to the side, the hip pair of clear glasses Courfeyrac picked out for him framing his face. His face is flushed, his eyes feverish. Enjolras’ pass is strung on a lanyard around his neck. 

“Oh my god,” Combeferre says dreamily. “What a show. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Enjolras forces himself to stay seated and not leap up to grab Combeferre by the lanyard, shake free all the answers that he needs. “Really,” he says.

“They were incredible.” Combeferre drifts towards them, drapes himself across Courfeyrac’s lap. He looks entirely unburdened, all of his usual seriousness abandoned, and Courfeyrac’s welcoming expression is a shade too appreciative for Enjolras’ comfort. Courfeyrac looks like if Enjolras wasn’t there, he might sweep everything from the table and bend Combeferre over it posthaste.

Which is a thought that Enjolras never wants to have again.

“Tell us,” urges Courfeyrac, “so that Enjolras can go home.”

At least they’re on the same page. Combeferre helps himself to Courfeyrac’s glass, pours more wine, then starts to describe the intricate set, the two encores with the crowd screaming, the aftermath: “The band came to the VIP section afterward, it was unreal,” he says. “I’ve been to a lot of concerts but never seen that kind of generosity with fans.” 

“And?” Enjolras is on the edge of his seat.

“Everyone stayed after to take pictures with us and sign autographs. Except Grantaire,” says Combeferre, eyeing Enjolras knowingly. He pauses for dramatic effect, then takes pity: “He came up onto our balcony, waved, looked around, then left.” His eyes are glittering. “It was pretty obvious he was looking for something he didn’t find.”

Enjolras’ heart is beating hard for too many reasons. First, the seeming confirmation that Grantaire really had wanted him there; second, that Enjolras had disappointed him; third, the idea that suddenly dawns that if he’d just gone himself and not been at sea about it, he might be with Grantaire this very minute. His mouth feels dry and he swallows down a rising tide of self-recrimination. What if this was his one chance, and he discarded it? How can he go tomorrow after behaving like this today?

And yet Combeferre looks so happy for the experience it’s hard to be regretful right then. Not to mention Combeferre seems to have retrieved the information that Enjolras longed for -- that Grantaire had hoped that Enjolras would show.

“No one blames him, of course, after the thing in Budapest, for not sticking around,” Combeferre is saying. “Everyone was thrilled to see him come in at all. I was standing next to a girl who saw them in Porto and Barcelona, and apparently Grantaire stopped making any appearances in Europe except onstage. But he looked good. I mean, really good. He didn’t seem ill or anything.”

“Really good, hmm,” hums Courfeyrac.

“And Jehan Prouvaire! Oh, he was lovely. We talked about his classical training for a while. He signed my copy of his poetry collection.”

“Oh, _did_ Jehan Prouvaire,” says Courfeyrac with more heat, his arms tightening around Combeferre. “I seem to recall that he was on your free pass list, too--”

“Courfeyrac, don’t be silly--”

“I’m not jealous. I’m having a great time imagining it.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go home now,” says Enjolras, making a grab for his jacket and scarf, then a beeline for the door.

“Enjolras, wait!” When he looks back, Combeferre is unwinding the lanyard from around his neck. “Aren’t you going to take it?”

Enjolras retrieves the pass silently. It vanishes into his jacket pocket. Inside the pocket, his hand curls around it, the plastic edge cutting into his palm.

Courfeyrac cocks his head. “Don’t leave us hanging.”

“I’ll figure it out,” says Enjolras. Because he knows he’s being rude after a free dinner and Combeferre’s reconnaissance trip, he does something rare for him -- paces around the table to press a kiss to each of their cheeks in turn. Then he goes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they’ll just keep saying “hey” back and forth until the world ends.

The next day Enjolras packs his work bag with clothes that are suitable for a concert. He doesn’t have to decide what he’s doing until he’s decided, but this way he has his bases covered. If he packs his most flattering casual outfit, that’s just fine, too.

Work is a fog. He’s glad that it’s Friday, and he’s not the only one counting down the minutes on the clock. Over cartons of Chinese food at lunch Bahorel asks him, in his loud, pointed way, why he keeps alternating between smiling and looking slapped. Enjolras eats an egg roll very slowly instead of answering. 

He gets some work done, consigns more of it to the urgent pile for Monday, and is starting to think about whether his packed outfit will be put to use when Bahorel calls across the open office, “Enjolras. Line three,” and he picks up his desk phone and punches the line.

“Public defender’s office, this is Enjolras speaking.”

“Uh, hey.”

The floor drops out from under him. The floor falls, the desk spins, the chair threatens collapse, the boundaries of the universe cave inward, then expand, convex. 

“This is --”

Enjolras knows that rich tenor better than his own, better than his best friends’ bright altos, his mother’s chastising soprano. He’s listened to the voice almost every day for six years. But he holds his breath and bites his lip and doesn’t interrupt because he needs to hear it confirmed. His eyes dart around the office, furtive, but his co-workers are busy at their desks; no one is looking at him; no one seems to have noticed that all of the oxygen has gone out of the room.

“--Grantaire,” says the voice. “Is this a bad time?”

Words. English, he speaks it. In fifth grade he won the class award for elocution and Combeferre is still sore about losing, mentions it when he’s in a bad mood and -- “No, it’s fine. Hey.”

“Hey.”

Maybe they’ll just keep saying “hey” back and forth until the world ends. 

“Sorry to call you at work,” says Grantaire. “I didn’t have another number.”

“That’s okay,” says Enjolras. He’s gripping the phone so tightly that he can feel his knuckles whitening with the strain. “How did you find this one?”

“You gave Joly your business card,” says Grantaire. “In case he ever got arrested.”

“Right,” says Enjolras. That’s all it takes and he’s flashing back to that night like he’s time-travelling, feels himself perched next to Grantaire on the ratty couch, their knees and shoulders touching. Grantaire an incandescent warmth, a burning star beside him. “Of course.”

“I was wondering if you got the pass I sent,” says Grantaire, with the air of a man used to getting to the point.

Enjolras wishes that the earth would split open and swallow him whole. “Yeah, thanks. I had plans I couldn’t get out of last night.”

“I see,” says Grantaire, with the air of a man who thinks he’s getting blown off. And that’s when Enjolras understands that no matter what else he is, Grantaire is that: a man, only a few years older than Enjolras, a real person with hollow half-moons under his eyes, a man who covered his one-night stand with his prize jacket rather than kick him out into the street. 

“I wouldn’t miss the show tonight, though,” says Enjolras all at once. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Cool,” says Grantaire, evenly, but there’s a sudden lessening of tension in his tone that is delicious to hear, that softens his drawl. “It would great to see you again.”

“Likewise,” says Enjolras, which sounds perfectly polite, and not like they’re definitely agreeing to meet up for sex, which he’s 99% sure they’re agreeing to and if he keeps holding on like this he’s going to break the phone or his hand. 

“Well,” says Grantaire.

“See you later, then.”

“Later,” agrees Grantaire. He also apparently intends that as a parting, because the line goes dead. Enjolras cradles the phone against his ear for another minute, as though someone is still talking to him, while he regains a measure of composure. 

He wants to text Courfeyrac and Combeferre immediately -- he wants to scream from the rooftops and hope that they can hear him, along with the entire population of New York City -- but he also wants to keep this beyond-belief development to himself, at least for a little while. So he only texts them, because he knows they’re wondering, _I decided to go,_ and then he spends the next half an hour quietly freaking out at his desk. 

_Great, so you’re officially a whore,_ sneers the harshest voice in his head. _He wants to fuck someone, no strings attached, and he could get an expensive prostitute or another groupie but you’re a done deal, desperate for it, and you come free. You cost him nothing, a ticket to his own show and a two-minute phone call and you’re sold. Congratulations._

But Enjolras has too much pride to listen to that voice for long. He’s always risen past it, whether the criticism came from within or from his parents or from patronizing professors or sneering cops at civil rights protests.

_It’s been three months and twelve countries and he still called you_ , points out his haughty confidence. _He didn’t forget about you. You didn’t freak out on him, try to go to the tabloids with the story. He doesn’t owe you anything but he could have anyone and he wants to see you. He went out of his way to make sure you could go to the show and when you didn’t show he called even though that was setting himself up as the vulnerable one. He called you at work ninety-six days later. He remembers what it felt like, too._

To shut up the cacophony in his head, since he’s decided, Enjolras forces his way through the last pile of work on his desk. His colleagues start to leave the office in a slow trickle, laughing with each other, sharing weekend plans. He keeps his head down, willing himself to be invisible. Even Bahorel, who likes to grab a drink on Friday nights, seems to forget that he’s there. When the office is mostly empty he retrieves his bag and retreats to the bathroom. 

Grey jeans that cling a little, with artful holes in the knees, a much-washed black t-shirt, short lace-up black boots. He spends too long fussing with his hair in the mirror, then gives up when he considers that he has hours ahead in a sweaty, teeming crowd. He loops the badge around his neck and zips up his jacket. It might not be leather, but it fits him well; it’ll do. He looks good, and he tries to hold to vanity as a shield against nagging self-doubt. 

The internal war continues until Enjolras reaches the venue, when the excitement of the masses swallows him up. The VIP balcony overhangs the general pit area and there’s a separate bar; he wants to keep a clear head but he buys a plastic cup of beer upon arrival so that there’s something to hold onto. He arrives early enough for a spot at the front of the balcony, dead center. 

He’s standing next to Eponine and Cosette, and they all figure that out around the same moment. While the opening band warms up the crowd the girls greet him like old friends. They’re stunningly made up, and beside them he feels washed-out, a pretender to the true groupie throne.

Eponine takes his face in her hands and kisses both of his cheeks. “We missed you last night, Apple Pie.”

Enjolras isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just widens his eyes a little and shrugs helplessly, like, what can you do. 

Cosette reaches across Eponine, gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. “No, really. Marius asked us to keep an eye out for you. For Grantaire. But you were a no-show.”

“Bummer,” elaborates Eponine. “The after-party was epic.”

“For Grantaire--?”

“I mean, not, like, on Grantaire’s orders, of course,” says Eponine, breezy. “Grantaire would never admit to needing anything from anyone. He has an image to maintain. But the guys haven’t forgotten that you’re the only person he’s let within a mile’s radius. Asleep in the greenroom! My God. You’re a legend.”

“‘Like an angel on the couch,’ said Marius,” Cosette informs him. She means it to be kind, thinks Enjolras, but he’s gone so red in the face it must look like he’s having a stroke. He chokes down a big sip of beer. 

“Anyway,” says Eponine, “it’s good that you’re here now. Hold onto your hat, pumpkin, because you’re about to be blown away. You have no idea.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras blinks at her. This is his sixth time seeing the band, a tally he’s long been proud of. He was even at some of the earlier, smaller shows, before the Grammys and the widespread acclaim.

“Just watch,” says Cosette, equally mysterious. She slides an arm around Eponine’s waist and draws her close; they lean into each other, Eponine’s head fit to the curve of Cosette’s shoulder. “Something happened to them in Europe.”

Enjolras wants to question them further, but that’s when the lights go out, the opening band departs, the roadies scramble to get the new equipment into place -- and then a single, solitary spotlight tracks Grantaire’s entrance onto the stage. 

He looks too good for Enjolras’ already shot nerves: all in black as per usual, the only relief a silver circlet around his wrist, and the riot of tattooed color on his arms. His hair is a little longer, worn loose and gleaming blue-black (Courfeyrac was wrong about the showering thing). He’s lost some bulk in the time since Enjolras last saw him, but the effect makes him appear honed, sharpened down to his essence.

Everything else aside, Grantaire is a consummate performer, a born showman. His performances range from electric to incendiary. Even if Enjolras were not already inclined, he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of Grantaire. No one can.

There’s a quirk of chemistry and charisma that makes some people rock stars and others simply accomplished musicians. Whatever it is, Grantaire exudes the aura, and as he steps up to the mic, black guitar slung across his body, the band finding their places behind him, he already has the audience in his thrall. He kicks off the first song without introduction -- they don’t need any -- and that’s when Enjolras begins to understand.

_Something happened to them in Europe._ Something unquantifiable but present, immediately obvious to anyone watching who has seen or heard them before. They’ve ascended to a level previously unknown. They’ve ascended, period.

Every chord from Jehan’s bass is throbbing and unmistakable. Every beat of Marius’ drum is in exact time, full and deep. Every bridge from Joly on lead guitar spans into a new and beautiful world. And bringing them all together, binding up the band and the spectators in a powerful spell, is Grantaire, his voice soft and harsh and soaring and diving, clear and true and perfect. 

Grantaire’s hands range his own guitar in accompaniment that is an afterthought. It’s his voice that holds them transfixed. The once-raucous crowd stands silent and stunned, watching, listening, starting to believe that this is happening. There isn’t a ripple of noise from anyone to disturb what they are realizing will go down as an epic event in the history of music.

Midway through the second song Enjolras finds himself gripping the balcony’s railing for support. His knees actually feel weak. He swallows thickly. No matter what brought him here tonight he is first and foremost a fan, and for a fan to see the band like this is life-altering. They play off of each other, reading invisible cues, picking up joint electricity like connected wires in a well-oiled machine. They’ve never been tighter, never been better, ever.

He feels an arm slide companionably around his waist and turns his head. It’s Eponine, a knowing smile on her lips. Beside her Cosette’s eyes are bright with joy and unshed tears. They pull him in, and though he would have been standoffish ten minutes ago Enjolras is grateful for the support, the camaraderie, for people who understand what this is, what it means. He stands swaying with them through the next few songs, all of them become a unit, all of them mouthing along with every word. 

The band plays the entirety of the new album, which is usually not what a crowd comes for, but this album won Album of the Year, drew rhapsodic reviews and broke Billboard records, so this crowd will allow it. Interspersed with the new songs are all the older radio hits and the beloved fan favorites. It’s the setlist Enjolras would have dreamed up in his wildest dreams.

The ballads get a hushed, reverent reception but once the hits emerge the crowd can’t stop themselves from singing along, especially after Grantaire, the sweat from the lights and exertion soaking his hair and t-shirt, tells them they had _fucking better_ sing. 

In the VIP balcony no one misses a word or a call-and-response, and the emotion surrounding Enjolras and the girls and emanating from them rises to a palpable pitch. Everyone is giddy, ecstatic, willing it to never end, then begging for it not to. The show seems to last forever and will also never, ever be long enough for their satisfaction. 

Three encores, each better than the last, because the crowd won’t stop stomping and screaming whenever the band tries to leave the stage. The final song is Enjolras’ absolute favorite, a deep, old cut not as polished as the newer catalog. He’s never heard it sung live before, and he feels his mouth open in surprise before he closes it. 

There’s no way Grantaire could know how he feels about the song, but something tightly-coiled in Enjolras unbends and feels released, like a sprung spring -- as though Grantaire has chosen it just for him. And though Enjolras knows that with the lights in Grantaire’s eyes and the distance Grantaire can’t see him, gooseflesh still rises on Enjolras’ skin when Grantaire tips back his head and gazes at the balcony while he sings. 

Grantaire couldn’t have been much over the legal drinking age when he wrote these lyrics. Maybe younger. It is a wistful love song that gains strength into a cutting indictment of all the inhumane human tragedy in the world, and ends with a plea and pledge to be better. 

Enjolras holds himself perfectly still throughout its course, hardly daring to breathe. Cosette has tugged Eponine back into the circumference of her arms and both girls are clinging with fierce emotion, as though they know what it is to be forcibly parted and will never allow for such a thing again. When the final note falls all three of them sigh audibly, the sound swallowed up in the torrential wave of cheers and applause that shakes the audience. 

Onstage, Marius spins his drumsticks and flashes a delighted, toothy grin. Joly has walked across to stand with his arm slung around Jehan’s shoulders, both of them waving. Grantaire alone stays motionless, looking down now and across the sea of faces.

“I wouldn’t be here without you,” Grantaire tells the crowd. “Thank you. Thank you. Goodnight.” 

This time when the lights go off they stay off, and they all know it will be no use yelling for more; their throats are collectively raw anyway. After a while the house lights come on, reveal thousands of elated faces. Everyone is trying to talk at once. 

On the balcony Enjolras is quiet next to Eponine and Cosette, who are kissing each other with great exuberance. But after a moment they seem to remember him.

“Well?” Eponine’s eyes are round and unexpectedly unguarded; she presents as a person with walls around her, but the music has found a way in.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Enjolras admits. “Did that just happen?”

“Don’t ask me,” says Cosette. “I died during the second encore and now I’m a ghost.” 

“Me too,” from Eponine. She’s beaming. “Didn’t we tell you?”

There’s an excited clamor from the doorway as the band comes out onto the balcony and security tries to keep the surge of people back. But Jehan and Joly and Marius start mingling immediately, like old, tried hands at this, laughing as they grab sharpies and start signing objects thrust under their noses. They accept and give hugs, smile for pictures, exclaim over fan-made presents. Then the energy changes, charges, erupts, because Grantaire walks in.

He responds to the shouts with a small smile, almost sheepish. A looming security guard keeps him isolated, but no one seems to mind; they’re too thrilled that he’s made any kind of appearance. His eyes sweep the crowd and lock with Enjolras’, because Enjolras is staring at him without shame.

Grantaire gives a slight nod. Then he bends to sign the sleeve of an enthusiastic young man’s t-shirt -- he must know the kid, because he ruffles his hair affectionately -- straightens up, waves, turns on his heel, and leaves. There are a few sad faces, but everyone is too ecstatic to be too disappointed, and Marius and Jehan and Joly are excellent consolation.

For everyone but Enjolras, who doesn’t know what to think, or what to do. Grantaire had looked right at him and nodded, but now he --

“If you’ll come with me.” Javert, in a shirt that loudly reads SECURITY, as though there were any doubt to his occupation, is suddenly blocking the light with the enormous span of his arms. He does not look amused. He looks like he’s never known amusement. 

Enjolras blinks, about to indignantly ask what he’s done wrong, when Cosette barrels past him and flings her arms around Javert’s neck. She pecks his cheek, and Enjolras stares, shocked to see Javert’s stony cheek flush.

“Stop scaring poor Enjolras, papa. He’s one of the good ones.” Cosette smiles sweetly. Then she says to Enjolras, “You better do as he says, though.” She makes a little shooing motion.

“Speaking of family,” says Eponine, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have some words with my baby brother for pestering Grantaire like that.” She touches the back of Cosette’s hand, then marches across the room to intercept the boy whose hair Grantaire had ruffled.

Enjolras is struck speechless by this sudden blossoming of multiple domestic dramas. Javert is still looming, looking like he dislikes nothing so much as having to repeat himself. 

“Go on,” Cosette says. She leans in and murmurs, for Enjolras’ benefit, “Papa’s the head of Grantaire’s security detail whenever he’s in New York. It’s okay, I promise. He only looks scary, it’s part of the job. He’s a total creampuff. My other papa calls him--”

“Cosette.” Javert’s expression is caught between an obviously deep attachment to his professional duty and the complete inability to bring himself to reprimand his daughter. He looks as though the strain might tear him apart at any moment. He turns his attention back on Enjolras. His teeth are grit. “If you’ll -- kindly -- come with me.”

This time Enjolras nods, awareness dawning that he’s not being kicked out. His heart kicks up inside his chest. With a thankful smile for Cosette after their night of bonding, he follows Javert through the crowd and through the door Grantaire disappeared through. 

Grantaire is on the other side of the door, leaning against the band sticker-covered wall. Javert turns on his heel and leaves them without a second glance, though Enjolras knows he’s taken up a position past the now-closed door to prevent anyone else from entering.

Even after so much time, so much time spent thinking about Grantaire, then about the concert, and what could come after, Enjolras isn’t ready. To be in such close proximity again is like being hit by a bucket of cold water and simultaneously being plunged into a hot spring. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Luckily, Grantaire solves that. He pushes off the wall, comes towards Enjolras. He looks as good as he had onstage, and also utterly drained, the pallor of his face stark. He looks like marble drenched by rain. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Here they are again, caught in an infinite cycle of “heys” that will echo on forever until the sun explodes and the Earth is consumed in flame --

“Listen, this sucks, but I have to go deal with some fucking press bullshit my manager sprung on me,” says Grantaire. “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras’ stomach drops like a stone. But he makes himself respond. “That’s -- that’s okay.”

Grantaire hasn’t moved away from him. No, in point of fact, he ducks closer, speaks quietly, like there’s the risk they could be overheard even though they are alone. “There’s a car outside. If you don’t mind, it’ll take you to the hotel. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Enjolras’ stomach rights itself to its proper position. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

“Excellent,” says Grantaire. With this settled he cracks a grin, which makes his visage appear approximately a thousand times more at ease. Nearly happy. His dark eyebrows rise. “It’s good to see you, Clarence Darrow.”

Enjolras finds himself grinning in return. “You too.” He tilts his head. “I would’ve thought I was more of a William Jennings Bryan.”

Grantaire makes a sound like “ha.” “You might believe in the innate goodness of the people -- which is, I’ll admit, rather quaint -- but you’re no pacifist who would argue against the legality of evolution. I stick with my choice.” 

Enjolras is pleased beyond measure that Grantaire seems to have remembered so much of their heated conversation on the greenroom couch prior to other activities there. He’s thrilled that they’re talking in more than short, small words again. “I don’t think we have the time to debate about it now.”

“We will,” says Grantaire, which emerges as the most spectacular assertion ever spoken to Enjolras. “Just tell Javert you’ll take the car and he’ll set you up. Make yourself comfortable when you get there -- I mean really, go to town on the mini bar if you want, order room service, whatever. I’ll try to make this quick.”

Hanging unsaid in the air, but not unsaid by Grantaire’s eyes, is the completion of the thought: _And then I’m going to fuck you._ Grantaire’s eyelashes dip down across his cheek, a slow and deliberate blink, and Enjolras updates his interpretation of Grantaire’s gaze: _I’m going to just absolutely fuck you until you can’t see straight or walk or argue about anything._

Enjolras flushes. He nods, turns to the door. Turns back. He has to acknowledge what he witnessed tonight. It seems callous not to, impossible, when he still feels expanded from the performance, like his skin doesn’t fit right. Changed by what he saw. “You know, tonight you were--”

A hand fists in his shirt front, and then Grantaire is hauling him in and cutting off his words with his mouth. He kisses Enjolras, hard, with an urgency that seems spontaneous but is also measured, like he’s thought about it. It’s their first kiss and it nearly knocks Enjolras flat with surprise.

Instead he melts into it, tries to give back every ounce of the enthusiasm that he feels. He, too, grabs for the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt, to bring him closer. Their bodies align, their tongues touch, retreat, repeat. Touch, repeat, retreat. He’s dizzy with arousal and lack of air, and it feels so good he can’t believe this is legal. 

Something had felt forbidden about kissing back when they were on the couch, like it was off the table, to be avoided. But Grantaire’s lips are insistent now against his own and the inside of Grantaire’s mouth is hot and wet and tastes like whiskey, and Enjolras could get drunk from him. He makes a helpless noise, meaning _more, more_ , but Grantaire must misinterpret it. Lets him go. 

“Go,” says Grantaire, “or I’m going to really piss off the entire press scrum that’s gathered by fucking them over completely.” 

As a fan, Enjolras knows how critical positive press is at this juncture of Grantaire’s career. All eyes are on him like vultures since the hospitalization in Budapest. As the person who has agreed to wait for Grantaire in a hotel room, he wants to tell them all to go fuck themselves. He tries to find the average between the two. He leans in and up, kisses Grantaire again, quick but soft. Then he pulls away.

“Remember that all they want is the slightest excuse for a headline,” says Enjolras, who has dealt with the hungry press during the occasional high-profile, scandalous case. “Smile at them and answer their questions like it’s a PTA meeting and you’ll be seeing me sooner rather than later. No one’s as easily bored as reporters.”

Grantaire cants his head, giving Enjolras an appreciative once-over. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You won’t know if that’s true,” says Enjolras, not sure how he’s summoning this kind of teasing confidence -- it might be the kissing -- but going with it. “Until you get finished with this.”

“All right, all right," says Grantaire. "Now I’m properly motivated.”

* * *

“I’m -- erm, taking the car,” Enjolras says quietly to Javert, expecting the now-expected glare. 

But Javert seems to have upgraded Enjolras’ status accordingly: now that he knows he is Grantaire-approved -- and Cosette-approved -- his manner has become tolerant, almost deferential. He nods, and gestures for Enjolras to follow him out a back doorway and down a criss-crossing narrow stairway meant for the stage crew and staff. 

They emerge behind the theater, where many cars and cabs are waiting. Javert ushers Enjolras towards a sleek dark SUV -- a nice car, but nothing ostentatious, no giveaway that it would carry a rock star (or his companion for the evening, thinks Enjolras, hardly able to process that this is his reality). Javert gets the door and Enjolras climbs into the backseat.

Enjolras clears his throat, unsure what to say to the driver, hopes that the instructions were left earlier. He has no idea where he’s going, to what hotel, hadn’t even asked after the room number. He realizes that his hands are trembling just a little with nerves, and he twists his fingers together. 

That’s when the driver’s side window rolls down, and Javert ducks his head inside and kisses the driver square on the mouth. Enjolras watches, blinking, his own mouth parting in astonishment. 

The interaction takes only a few seconds, and then Javert is gone and the window closed. The driver turns around to smile at Enjolras. He wears a smart suit and a chauffeur’s cap over his flyaway silver hair, and his smile is kind. It’s Valjean, last seen wielding a mop and bucket and awakening Enjolras to the harsh light of the greenroom. 

“Hello again, son,” says Valjean, turning back and starting the engine. He pulls smoothly out into traffic. He seems to know where they’re headed, so Enjolras is spared that awkward exchange at least.

“Ah, hello,” says Enjolras politely. Tries to hide his utter confusion. 

Valjean’s laugh is soft, musical. “I’m not always a janitor,” he explains. “I have a great many occupations, you see.”

“That’s interesting,” says Enjolras, because it is. 

Valjean is steering them toward the turnoff for the Brooklyn bridge, headed into Manhattan, so they have some space to talk about it. Valjean appears primed for conversation, and Enjolras is glad enough to listen -- it’s a fine distraction from his anxious, uncertain excitement.

“Truth be told,” Valjean is saying, “I never really had a calling to any job -- not like Javert. Some people, they’re just marked out for certain roles in this life, aren’t they. As for me, I was made to be a father; and now that my Cosette does not need me so much, I am made to be a husband; and what I like best to do is remain as close as I can to Javert, for whatever time that we have.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. It’s the single most romantic thing he’s ever heard.

“So when you saw me last, Javert was on duty for your friend at the theater. On nights like that, I work at the theater also. Whenever Grantaire is in town for more than one show, he lets me drive him. Says he wouldn’t trust anyone else,” says Valjean with a note of pride in his voice. “He’s been very good to us, Grantaire, and to my Cosette most of all.” 

Enjolras feels a sudden, unexpected warmth bloom in his belly. “He has?”

Valjean nods; Enjolras watches the back of his head. “Indeed. But I won’t go telling his tales. He would not like that, I think.” 

Enjolras swallows then, says nothing, because a treacherous instinct in him had wanted to beg gossip of Valjean: to ask how many others have been driven to hotels like this, or piled in beside Grantaire in the backseat. To ask what Grantaire had done for Valjean’s family and what he acted like away from the stage lights and who he really was with all facades stripped away. 

But he knows that the questions are inappropriate and that Valjean will not answer them, will disapprove of the intrusion. He sits silently instead for a few minutes, watching the glittery landscape of skyscrapers reach for the clouds as they cross the bridge. 

Then Enjolras offers, already guessing that the topic is a fond one, “I know Cosette, a little. I watched the show with her tonight.”

“Did you now!” He’s guessed correctly: Valjean’s warm voice expands with affection and delight. “Never was there a lovelier child, more doting on her poor old fathers. She is the best of both of us, and she is many other better things besides, thank the good God. Tell me, son, was Eponine with her?”

“Um,” says Enjolras, unsure whether he, now, is violating some kind of confidence. “Yes?”

“Oh, very good,” says Valjean, sounding relieved. “The love between those girls is so strong, but I have worried since they became involved with young Marius. Cosette tells me not to worry, and so I suppose I must not; but fathers will, you know.” 

Enjolras doesn’t think his father has worried about anything concerning him since he secured the familial legacy and was accepted to Harvard law. Since he proved a disappointment thereafter. This he also swallows down. The idea of his father, or any father, really, casually discussing his child’s polyamorous relationship is entirely outside of Enjolras’ purview. But he says, “Yes, I suppose so.”

Valjean’s eyes meet his, momentarily, in the rearview mirror, and perhaps he can sense the reluctance in Enjolras’ tone, because he drives them away from the matter as carefully as he navigates the traffic coming down off from the bridge. “We’re nearly just to the hotel. Then I’m to go back to fetch the young man of the hour. Then,” he says, with relief and an adoration so deep Enjolras has never heard it voiced before, “I get to drive my husband home.”

Enjolras attempts a smile. “Javert seems very -- dedicated.”

“There is no one more so,” Valjean assures him. “He is so single-minded, he never falters; no, he bends the rest of the world to match his will. Why, he changed me in ways you would not believe. Sometimes we do not know who we truly are until another person shows us what we can be.”

“Your family sounds lovely, sir,” says Enjolras, feeling oddly moved. He watches the gleaming glass-fronted length of the hotel swing into sight. The name of the place escapes him, but he knows the location, knows by its address that it is five stars and beyond his price range for even a cup of coffee in the lobby. His nervousness rises again.

“Thank you.” Valjean kills the engine at the hotel’s entrance and turns around in his seat. “But I am no sir. You must call me Jean.” He extends a hand, which Enjolras grasps and shakes. Valjean’s grip is uncommonly strong, and strangely reassuring. Enjolras finds it grounding.

“Jean. I hope to speak with you again.” As soon as the words are out Enjolras wishes he could retract them. It’s presumptuous, preposterous, that he should be ever driven by this man again. But Valjean merely gives him a knowing sort of smile. Then he retrieves a small plastic card from the glove compartment and presses it into Enjolras’ hand. “Room 1218, I was told.”

“Thanks.” Enjolras pockets the key-card quickly, his color rising. He’s about to let himself out of the car when a concierge rushes up to do the honors. Enjolras grabs his bag, gives Valjean a rather hurried wave, and gets out, letting the concierge in his perfectly pressed uniform slam the car door. 

The entranceway to the hotel is transparent, and he can see beyond into a lobby done up in impeccable modern-art style. Yup. Couldn’t even buy a cup of coffee here, in his actual real life.

He feels horribly out of place and underdressed as the concierge beckons him inside. He expects a lobby full of wealthy old people in black tie, and is somewhat relieved to spot a younger crowd. 

Everyone is wearing insane signifiers of money, however, from the flash of a $100,000 watch to Parisian heels his mother would appreciate, and Enjolras puts his head down to avoid any eye contact as he heads for the bank of elevators. He’s grateful when an empty one arrives. He slides the key into the slot, punches in the floor, stares at himself in the multi-mirrored walls. His reflection stares back, pale and incredulous. 

When the elevator doors ding open, he paces down a hallway and past side-tables bearing vases of creamy calla lilies until he finds room 1218. This is it -- he’s actually here, at Grantaire’s hotel room, an idea that would have been unfathomable even a few hours ago.

What had he expected? The truth was when he let himself think this far, he’d thought maybe they’d have another greenroom. 

Frankly, he was excited enough about the prospect of Grantaire that Enjolras would have a welcomed a trip to the closest broom closet. But this is something else entirely.

The room turns out to be a suite, and it is absolutely enormous. Five times the size of Enjolras’ tiny apartment. There is a full kitchen and bar, a television as tall as Enjolras, floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room overlooking the city, and in the master bedroom -- Enjolras only ducks in quickly to check -- a bed that could sleep four adults comfortably and six or seven if they were very friendly. Everything is brightly, boldly white and painfully avant garde, and Enjolras stands in the center of the living room, afraid to touch anything and besmirch it.

Grantaire had told him to make himself comfortable, so he tries. He pours a glass of red wine from the selection of bottles on the marble counter-top. He perches on a bar stool, then in a plush white leather armchair by the glass wall. 

He watches cars thread through the streets below. He thinks about putting on the TV. He has no clue how long he’ll be waiting for and he is completely, utterly out of his depth. He spends a while reading through ecstatic reactions to the concert on Twitter. He pours another half-glass of wine but doesn’t drink it. 

The bathroom is bright and gleaming and sports a separate sunken bathtub large enough to swim in. An idea strikes and Enjolras shakes his head, but once he’s thought of it he can’t unthink it. It’s unlike him, it’s something he’s never done before for someone else, and so the urge to follow the line of thought gets stronger. 

The whole act of being here -- of everything concerning Grantaire -- is about not obeying his usual norms. About behaving as someone more spontaneous and less rigidly set in their ways would behave. All of a sudden Enjolras is resolved. 

He grabs his bag and carries it into the bathroom. Then he takes off his clothes and folds them away. Then he fishes out the lube he’d stashed in the bag that morning alongside a bunch of condoms ( _safety first_ ), sits on the edge of the tub, and starts to prepare himself for Grantaire.

Really, this is the last thing he’d ever have imagined doing tonight. But as he works his fingers in, slowly, then with blossoming certainty and growing anticipation, he thinks about Grantaire’s fingers, calloused and sure, about Grantaire’s cock, long and thick and so deep inside of him. 

When Grantaire arrives Enjolras will be able to say: _I’m ready for you, you can fuck me right now,_ and it sounds pretty sexy in his head, all things considered, and he doesn’t think Grantaire will be opposed. 

There’s the risk, of course, of Grantaire coming back any moment and finding him like this, naked, his own hand moving, striving, but he also doesn’t imagine that Grantaire would be opposed to that discovery, either. In fact, all it takes is picturing the expression on Grantaire’s face and Enjolras is gasping, getting hard, his body yielding willingly to the plan. 

When he’s as ready as he’ll ever be, Enjolras grabs one of the bathrobes, a fluffy affair that slides luxuriously across his skin, pockets the bottle of lube, and goes to sit back by the wall of glass. 

He thinks about trying to arrange his limbs in an alluring pose, but that concept is a good bit too far into ridiculous, so he just curls up in the massive arm chair with his phone. He sends vague messages to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, says that he’ll update them tomorrow (really, what could he even tell them now?) but that he’s fine (he’s fine, right? Perfectly fine). 

Sure, he’s waiting in a rock star’s palatial suite naked and slick under a bathrobe but everything’s cool. Totally cool. He can handle this. 

But when the much-desired click of the keycard finally sounds, Enjolras finds that he’s holding his breath. He stares at the door as though staring will reveal the future concealed behind it. Then the door opens and Grantaire is there.

Against the blinding white of the room Grantaire is like a living shadow: still all in black, with a black bag slung over his shoulder, a short black wool coat -- no replacement for his leather jacket -- open to show the line of his throat. His dark hair is in disarray, and he looks more beautiful than Enjolras remembered and ten times more tired than he’d seemed backstage. Grantaire’s gaze tracks the room and finds Enjolras in the chair, in the robe, and his shoulders square, and sharp awareness comes back into his eyes. He looks updated from past tense into the present.

They stare at each other a long moment. Neither appears inclined to speak. Instead, Enjolras stands up purposefully, and, he hopes, smoothly. The belt of the bathrobe is a loose knot, and as he crosses the soft white carpet to Grantaire, the knot slips and the robe parts in a way so seductive he wishes he could take credit for planning it. 

Enjolras goes to Grantaire. He presses his mouth to Grantaire’s and his body against Grantaire’s, and Grantaire’s arms are around him, pull him in, and Grantaire kisses back with an enthusiasm that buoys Enjolras and the kind of hunger that suggests a long period of starvation. 

Now that kissing is a thing that they do it’s like they can’t be stopped without an outside force intervening. Emboldened, Enjolras pushes a hand deep into the riot of Grantaire’s hair, closes his fist around a handful of curls and tugs. In response Grantaire licks so far into Enjolras’ mouth that his tongue becomes a heady suggestion of other acts. 

Grantaire’s hands are all over him, ranging his bared skin under the robe, and Enjolras returns the favor, fingers skimming up under Grantaire’s t-shirt, pushing the jacket from his shoulders. The force of their bodies interlocked is like a collision that keeps on going, until they’re as close as physically possible without actually fucking. 

So Enjolras breaks away -- half an inch of breathing space -- to speak his truth. It emerges nearly as he’d practiced in his head: “You can fuck me,” he tells Grantaire’s watching eyes. “I’m ready for you -- I want --” 

He falters when the expression on Grantaire’s face goes incredulous, then regains confidence when Grantaire’s expression ignites. There isn’t another word for it; Grantaire brightens like a struck match. His lips part and for a space he says nothing, and then he says, “Tell me exactly what you want, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shivers to hear his proper name spoken after so much time. He palms the lube from the robe’s pocket. Passes it to Grantaire. Pulls the robe off to pool at his feet. Swallows when he realizes how long he’s been thinking about this -- how long he was convinced he’d never get to have this again. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Grantaire turns him around right where they are. Presses him face-first against the wall, its flawless expanse of white be damned. Enjolras puts his hands up for balance, puts his forehead to the cool plaster, and listens to the sound of Grantaire’s zipper, to how Grantaire doesn’t even pause to take off his clothes, just shoves down his jeans, to the click of the lube’s cap and --

“You might’ve heard,” murmurs Grantaire, and all of a sudden two of his fingers -- the fingers Enjolras has imagined and dreamed about -- slide inside Enjolras, as though to double-check his readiness. “About the thing in Hungary,” and oh, God, now it’s three fingers all at once, cleverly twisted, and Enjolras had (almost) forgotten how skilled Grantaire was at this. Half out of his mind with _wanting,_ the subject is the last he’d expected, so Enjolras only makes a plaintive, affirmative noise. 

“They ran every test on me under the sun,” Grantaire says, low, into Enjolras’ ear, before setting his teeth to the lobe. “What I’m saying is, I’m clean, and I haven’t -- since we -- so -- if you --”

Enjolras swings his head sideways. He’s a wanton, writhing, almost unrecognizable body in Grantaire’s grasp, but he comes back enough to blink, astonished, at Grantaire. Clean, he’s willing to believe. That Grantaire hasn’t fucked anyone else in three months stretches the bounds of all belief systems. But Grantaire is watching him, measured, the messy fall of his hair obscuring one blue eye, and it seems a strange admission to make when it doesn’t need to be made. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Enjolras says, far past desperation. “Come on,” he says, bracing more firmly to the wall when he feels Grantaire’s fingers withdraw. “Me neither.” 

Then Grantaire is _in_ , and Jesus Christ, but even after all of their combined fingers Enjolras isn’t prepared, will never be prepared, for the feeling of Grantaire entering him. Grantaire’s cock is long and thick and so, so hard, and he pushes on relentlessly, as though he is also incapable of waiting even another breath. The feel of skin on skin with nothing between them is like nothing else -- nothing is like this; they’re barely begun and Enjolras gasps for more, _more_.

Grantaire’s hand comes up and curls over Enjolras’ on the wall, steadies them both, and then he’s flush against Enjolras’ back, the waistband of his jeans hitting the back of Enjolras’ knees, Grantaire’s feet still in boots. He pulls out, then thrusts in faster, harder, determined. When Enjolras takes him without complaint, when Enjolras rides back on him, desperate for all that he can get, any sense of caution or care gets left behind. 

Enjolras bends at the waist, his fingers scrabbling at the paint, trying to find purchase where there is none, and Grantaire fucks into him with the surety as though he’s been training for it in the intervening months. 

Which he swears he hasn’t. 

And Enjolras believes him then, believes him without reserve, because there’s a well of pent-up frustration and desire fueling Grantaire’s drive that he wouldn’t understand except that he feels it himself. 

Too long without this, an impossible stretch of gray days and black restless nights, and the world only now regaining color.

“God,” Enjolras hears, and realizes that it’s him speaking. “God, yes, yes, yes--”

“Keep talking, Cicero.” Grantaire’s mouth is at the base of Enjolras’ neck, tastes there. “I like to hear you.”

“I -- ah -- ah --” Enjolras tries to comply, but Grantaire’s movement is so thorough now the air is forced from his lungs every time Grantaire thrusts home. It’s becoming rough and with a rising possessive suggestion that Enjolras never knew he liked until it’s happening: Grantaire’s free arm is locked across his belly, Grantaire’s hand covering his on the wall and pinning him into place. Enjolras tries again. “You--”

“You,” counters Grantaire. His teeth and tongue drag a sharp wet line across Enjolras’ shoulder. His thighs impact Enjolras’, his cock filling Enjolras past the point Enjolras thought he could bear, then finding a way deeper, a harder angle. “You really haven’t done this -- since…?”

It’s an unorthodox choice of conversation given their activity but it gives Enjolras the ability to focus on words and select them in sequence. “No,” he pants. “No.” Grantaire’s fingers tighten on his hand. “I tried, though.”

“You did.” Grantaire will nail him into the wall, leave him hung up here like another piece of modern art. Portrait of a young man fucked into oblivion. Blood and come and blond hair on paint, 2017.

“Went on a blind date,” Enjolras manages. They’re chipping the paint away now under their nails, smearing sweat-slick fingerprints across the pristine surface. “It was awful. Didn’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire slows, moving inside him with a smooth roll of his hips. In, out, in, out, deeper and deeper, every withdrawal feeling like a loss Enjolras can’t name and never wants to. That’s when Grantaire puts his hand around Enjolras’ straining cock, and starts to time tight strokes of his fist with the rhythm of his thrusts. That’s when Enjolras starts to lose any semblance of control, the building heat in his body banking towards a firestorm. “Why’s that?”

It’s not a question that Enjolras knows how to answer. It’s not practical, or logical, or sensical; none of the ways Enjolras has been behaving since that night can be parsed. So he grits his teeth against the onslaught of pleasure, and grins, though Grantaire can’t see it, and says, “I guess you’re a better conversationalist.” 

Grantaire lets out startled laugh that reverberates down through Enjolras’ toes and rings in his ears. Then Grantaire resumes his frenetic motion, slams back into Enjolras hard enough to make them both groan. His fist works Enjolras’ cock with intense dedication and startling alacrity. He bites and sucks a series of marks into Enjolras’ neck and Enjolras wishes they were facing a mirror so that he could watch the mottled colors rise, wishes that he could study Grantaire’s face like he had the first time they fucked. 

Enjolras comes all at once, comes apart before he’s ready or even aware that he’s approaching the brink, comes like what he’s been for months, combustible, ready to go up in flames given the right spark. 

He comes pleading for it, then with Grantaire’s name in his mouth, and his body no longer feels like his own. Or is he uncovering what he truly is? He doesn’t feel like himself and he’s also never been more grounded. 

Maybe this is what he needs, this giving up of close-held control. He’s willingly surrendered, destroying property, begging for the person that somehow knows how to unlock him to not stop, to please never stop. This is what he’s been waiting for since the last time and for a long time before that. This is what is missing in his life. 

Grantaire gives him all that he asks for and more, holds back his own release while Enjolras shudders in his arms, and is quick to catch the spill in his hand. Then his hand, slick with wet and heat, moves to spread long fingers across Enjolras’ belly. Presses hard there, the weight like an anchor. Enjolras is ascendant but still kept tethered to earth by Grantaire’s grip and the now-slowed passage of Grantaire inside him. What is Grantaire waiting for? Why won’t he join Enjolras in the stratosphere?

Enjolras remembers how to breathe, recalls the shape of words. The aftershocks shake him, and it takes longer to remember how to behave than he would ever believe. At last he cants his head sideways to study Grantaire’s expression and meets his eyes at once. Grantaire has been watching him go through the journey and return again. 

“I want to make you come,” Enjolras says, which are not words he thought he knew.

Grantaire’s fiercely serious concentration cracks into a smile, slow and secret. Enjolras chooses to believe that few others have ever seen it before. “You’ve done well at that already,” Grantaire answers. “Don’t worry. Though I’ll confess I’m eager to see your approach.”

Enjolras finds himself smiling back. “Are you?”

“I rarely lie. I’m told it’s a failing. Unfailingly tactless.”

Enjolras understands the sentiment then, because it’s surprisingly difficult to stare into Grantaire’s gaze, which does not waver. Grantaire is watching him without a bit of chagrin or embarrassment at their position, as easy as if they were sitting side by side. Only the sensuous push and pull of Grantaire’s cock inside Enjolras reminds them where they are. The wall before them is scratched and pawed, its white surface marked with dents and fingerprints like an obscene crime scene. 

There’s nothing to be done for the wall now, so Enjolras ceases to be sorry about it. He puts up both palms, braces them against the cracked paint. Uses the leverage to ride back all at once against Grantaire. Is rewarded for catching him unawares by a sharp intake of breath that becomes a breathy moan. 

The reward is more than enough motivation: Enjolras does it again, again, seizes their momentum for himself, gains control and speeds the pace. His hips become pistons, pushing back, and with every thrust he makes he takes Grantaire further inside, deeper than he’d imagined they could go. 

Grantaire swears, then holds tight to Enjolras’ hips for the ride. When Enjolras looks at him now Grantaire is not staring; his head his thrown back, his dark curls damp with exertion. The strain of both concentration and fatigue has melted from his brow.

For the first time since Enjolras laid eyes on him tonight, Grantaire looks in need of nothing else -- not sleep or whiskey or quiet or escape or adoration, nothing save being had and taken to completion.

It feels so good and triumphant that Enjolras feels himself stirring anew, might follow that if they were pressed for time -- but he dares to hope that they are not; there are whole other cavernous rooms in this suite they have not yet explored, and no concerts on Grantaire’s schedule until the next week. Instead he focuses on what is most essential, on what he has imagined and made himself suppress imagining on countless nights in the months since their greenroom. He works Grantaire deeper and deeper still, faster, faster. 

“My method?” Enjolras manages.

“Ah, fuck you,” says Grantaire, with feeling. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

“Come in me,” says Enjolras. He’d meant to say it like this: Come in me, if you want. If you want to, come in me, but in the end it becomes an imperative and he doesn’t leave it open for interpretation. In the end it doesn’t matter because Grantaire comes inside him when he says that, when Enjolras commands him. 

Grantaire comes like a man who’s kept himself from pleasure and relief, like a man long wrapped in chains cut loose. He drives fast and hard and lands heavily across Enjolras’ back, nearly silent save the bites he lays into Enjolras’ shoulder, which feel like screams sound. 

He fills Enjolras up, fills him so far that it’s a stake claimed that Enjolras cannot imagine will ever be challenged or surpassed. But there’s not enough space to think about that long about it, which is the only thing that keeps him on his feet under Grantaire’s incursion.

Grantaire is kissing the nape of his neck. “Ground control to the Attorney General.”

Enjolras laughs. “You’re going to run out of nicknames eventually.”

“Try me,” says Grantaire. He pulls out so carefully no one would ever guess at the speed by which he had entered. “I could do this all night.”

His overwrought muscles -- and his overheated brain -- protesting, Enjolras turns to face him. It’s remarkable how he manages to keep an outward cool. In another life Enjolras must have been an actor, or a politician. “Could you?”

“One hundred percent, yes.” Grantaire touches his cheek appreciatively. Then to Enjolras’ disappointment he steps back, bends with effortless grace and pulls his pants back into place. Buckles his belt. He’s still wearing boots. 

Grantaire now looks unruffled, no way to know about the debauchery that has passed between them save his unruly hair unrulier than ever, and the smoothed lines on his forehead. When Grantaire turns away and paces towards the bar, a sharp and painful spike in Enjolras’ stomach introduces the idea that he has been summarily dismissed. 

Enjolras stands by the wall, feeling Grantaire’s come wet on his thighs, their mutual heat still clinging to his skin. Suddenly unsure, he ducks to grab the robe, throws it over his shoulders for coverage. If that was it, it’s still much more than he’d let himself hope for, all these empty months; but if that was it he cannot yet face the time of mourning again so quickly. 

The too-clever, overconfident person Enjolras knows he is should puff up with pride and leave. But Enjolras is sick of him. So he stays standing still.

Then he sees that Grantaire has set out two glasses and is splashing good measures of red wine into both. When he turns back to Enjolras with the glasses in his hands, one eyebrow arches. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Grantaire says.

“I did,” says Enjolras, swallowing down the unneeded pride. His instantaneous defense mechanisms that seem unviable around Grantaire collapse once more. “Guess it got off on watching us fuck.”

“Ghosts are pervs,” agrees Grantaire, coming close and passing over Enjolras’ wine, taking care to clink their glasses. “I mean, who else would choose to stick around to wander in and out of other people’s business?” 

Enjolras drinks, watches Grantaire drink deep. They stand in the middle of the all-white room, with the city spread out around them in winking lights beyond the windowed wall of glass. 

Grantaire finally seems to notice their surroundings, whistles low. “This place is so unnecessary. I told my manager I didn’t need anything like this. But he gets the same accommodations, and he gets to choose them. And he likes ostentatious bullshit.” He glances fleetingly at the cityscape, then at Enjolras’ profile, and keeps his eyes steady there. “I like the scenery, at least.”

Enjolras has another drink because he will embarrass himself and Harvard law school and the public defender’s office and everyone who knows and likes him if he tries to formulate a coherent response to that. 

His own glass drained, Grantaire returns to the bar for a refill. Then he says, “I’m fucking gross. I probably last bathed in Germany.” (Enjolras files a mental note not to tell Courfeyrac this bit of information.) “Gotta shower.”

It’s then that Enjolras wonders if his dismissal has arrived so quickly he neglected to see its approach. 

Grantaire heads across the room, tugging off his clothes one-handed and keeping the wine in the other. Shirtless at the bathroom door, he tilts his head at Enjolras. “You coming or not, barrister?”

Under the shower-heads, of which there are three, a totally ridiculous excess, Grantaire’s mouth tastes like red wine from Bordeaux. His eyes, when seen behind a doubled curtain of hair and water, are alight as he kisses Enjolras against the marble wall. 

Enjolras is kissed while pressed to blue-veined white marble and all he can smell is lavender shampoo and all he can feel is Grantaire’s lips on his and he will never, ever forget this, not until the day he dies. When he dies he will close his eyes just like this and smell flowers from distant fields and taste French wine and cool stone will be at his back and he’ll remember Grantaire’s tongue on his teeth and it will be enough. 

God, he’s fucking fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on [tumblr,](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) and i love you and your face.


End file.
